


Sabbatical

by Ophelia_Raine



Series: Pygmalion [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Implied Sexual Content, Marriage, Older Man/Younger Woman, Petyr being hot and bothered in all sorts of ways, Rough Sex, Sansa is clueless half of the time, Slow Burn, Trial Separation, World Travel, Yoga, all good fun!, and schmoopy boy, and yes I am taking the piss now and then, any resemblance to known romcoms probably intentional, return of smitten kitten, sex while on holiday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-03-24 19:02:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 73,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13817478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ophelia_Raine/pseuds/Ophelia_Raine
Summary: After 7 years of marriage, celebrated romance writer Sansa Stark (writing under Alayne Stone) thought she finally had it all: a thriving career, a good postcode, and a fairytale marriage to a childhood sweetheart.But when darling husband Harrold Hardyng announced one day that he would like a break from their marriage, Sansa is devastated and confused. “Is there someone else?” she had wailed, but no. He just wanted to Eat Pray Love his way through Southeast Asia.It’s month two and Sansa has had it. She will fight for her man like any number of her novels' heroines. Thank god for Margaery Tyrell, bored heiress with connections and an insatiable appetite for shopping and men. Now they’re off to Southeast Asia to stay with one of her friends — one semi-retired Petyr Baelish “with a fucking big house on a tiny island". Will Sansa win back her conscientious, uncoupled man? Or will Southeast Asia bring its own surprising delights?





	1. All Who Wander

**Author's Note:**

  * For [apocketfulofwry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/apocketfulofwry/gifts).



Margaery Tyrell had enjoyed a thoroughly satisfying day in the way that only an independent woman of means could enjoy. She had saluted the sun this morning before settling in for a solid hour of meditation where she actually managed to keep a blank mind for a whole five minutes. Maybe. She had morning tea with her grandmother at the Ritz, and posted a photoshopped montage on _Lipp!_ of herself designer op-shop shopping. And then she'd impetuously bought a new apartment on Swanston Street off the plan, because she had happened to walk by the Open House sign and they had been taking names. It was _such_ a sweet four-bedroom apartment, and only walking distance to the city and shopping — even in heels! A girl really couldn't lose! Her personal Relationship Manager was a _darling_ to answer his phone on a Saturday, even though the bank was closed. 

Which was just as well, because Sansa needed to unload and Margaery had already detoxed and could take her negative energy on. As good friends should. 

“But darling, what happened!” Margaery's eyebrows were furrowed in sympathy — not too much that deep crease lines were to show, but enough to convey love and comfort while still looking unwittingly sultry in that small preview pane on the corner of her phone. She shook her hair forward. Even better.  

Mrs Sansa Hardyng sniffled a few more times before she started to bawl. It was honestly quite difficult to hear her.  

“It’s Harry!” she finally wailed. “He’s left me!” 

“He’s _what?!_ ” 

“Left me!” And Sansa sniffed. “But not really. But he’s gone!”  

“Wait right where you are. I’m getting Loras to drive you back to my place.” 

“Can’t you come to me?” Another sniff. “I just want to stay home in my bed. I’m so miserable, Margee.” Margaery relented with a dramatic sigh.  

“Alright. I’ll get the car ‘round. Because I love you.” 

* * *

By the time Loras pulled into the Hardyngs' driveway, Sansa had pulled herself together enough to meet Margaery at the door.

“Darling, I’ve brought two bottles — one red, of course. And your favourite dessert wine, the white one. And a fourth surprise choice, in case you _really_ want to get smashed!” 

Sansa’s mouth formed a watery smile. She knew Margaery found her home _“cosy”_. The fact that she was willing to stay late nonetheless, even overnight… that’s _real_ love. 

Unlike her Harry’s. 

At the thought of her wayfaring husband, Sansa’s eyes began to water once more and Margaery hastily guided her friend back into her house. 

“So what happened?” Margaery finally asked after half a bottle and Sansa’s voice had stopped wobbling. 

“He wants a break from our marriage — but not a divorce.” 

“Go on.” 

“He wants to see the world more. On his own. H… he feels he never got to know his _true_ self, because we married so young.” 

“Why can’t he travel the world with you! It’s not like you can’t afford to!” 

“That’s what _I_ said,” protested Sansa, feeling a little defensive. “I told him I’d do whatever it takes. Talk to Olenna. Push the release of the next book out by six months. Marriage over career, right? But he wouldn’t listen. Just kept saying it’s something he needs to do on his own!” 

“So where’s he gone!” 

“Southeast Asia, he said.” 

“Yes, but which part?” 

“He refuses to say. He just says he wants to get lost there... and find himself!” 

Margaery rolled her eyes. “Ugh. _Eat Pray Love_ is so yesterday.” 

“Not according to _Lipp!_ , it’s not!” And Margaery cringed. _Touché_ , little bird. Marge had written that article not two months ago. And then a month after that, she had written about marriage sabbaticals. 

Oh dear. 

“Angel…” Margaery hesitated, “exactly what does a break mean?” 

“We don’t live in each other’s pockets, I suppose. That’s his first big thing. He wants to do whatever he wants without having to worry about me or whether I like it. I guess he doesn’t want to feel like he has to consult me or get my approval, or… or to _report_ to me. Oh Margee, am I unreasonable like that? Did I nag him too much, you think? I know I can be angry with him sometimes, when he’s doing silly, thoughtless things. Am I too stubborn?” 

“Sansa,” Margaery eyes grew stern. “You are the sweetest person I know. No, you are not stubborn. You do not nag. You sure as hell have not been _unreasonable!_ You are his wife! And you are _gorgeous_. _I_ am the bitch, but you are lovely and lovable and sweet and kind. And don’t you dare think otherwise!” 

Another watery smile. 

“What else.” 

“No rings.” And Sansa twisted the rock on her finger then, her face whitening as she worked the band around her finger, her lower lip caught in her teeth to stop the trembling.  

“Sansa…” Margaery’s tone was gentle and low. “Does a break means he gets to… see other people? You know… if he meets one along the way?” 

The look on Sansa’s face was pure anguish, and Margaery wanted to hunt down Harry with a Doberman specially trained in the art of sniffing out dropkick husbands who want to have their cake and eat it.  

A Doberman with a firm grip over that feckless man’s sausage.  

“I don’t know.” A tiny whisper. The quiver was back. 

“Is there already another woman, you think?” Margaery loathed to ask the question, but it had to be put on the table. Surprisingly, Sansa shook her head vehemently. 

“That’s the first thing he assured me of, Margee. It isn't because of another woman or anything. He’s not looking to play around. He genuinely wants to find himself. He’s just never been to him. Like that old song by Charlene*.” 

“Oh the _poor baby_ ,” Margaery snapped, and yanked the bottle to top up her glass. She was feeling pissy now. Margaery had always found Harrold rather vain and shallow. And that was quite something, coming from _her_. 

In this instance, however, she hated to be proven so right. Ugh. 

“How long is he going to take to find himself, you think?” Margaery asked neutrally, although she privately snarked that an hour should have sufficed, seeing how Harry didn’t have very much material to work with. 

“I don’t know.” 

“What is your plan, my darling?" 

Sansa sighed. “I think I’m just going to sit and wait for him to come home.”    

* * *

"I can't just sit and wait for him to come home!” 

Sansa was pacing the floor again, something that Harry had always found annoying. It was cold comfort that he wasn’t here to coax her to cut it out. It never really bothered Margaery. At least Sansa was burning carbs while she was agonising over her half-abandoned marriage. That’s something.  

“I mean… two months is a long time, isn’t it? Surely I’ve waited long enough!” 

Margaery privately thought Sansa had waited two months too long. If any of her ex-husbands had ever thought to drop _her_ like a tonne of bricks to go walkabout without so much as a hint of where he was walking _to_ , Margaery would have breezily waved the prenup in his face before kicking his sorry ass to the curb. _You can walk over there, there, and there to collect your clothes. And I’m keeping the bloody jewels._

In her article last week on the stages of grief — the one that came with a pop quiz — Margaery had wondered aloud if people could skip whole stages in the process. Because Sansa Hardyng over here seems to have moved right past the anger stage.  

Margaery had been waiting for Anger stage. Because then they could go destroy Harry things and then go shopping. Margaery really liked shopping.  

“And what kind of wife am I, anyway!” Sansa was lamenting now. “Leonara would have gone after Leopold by now!” Leonara was the heroine from Sansa’s fifth book. She was an Ugly Duckling turned Unwilling Duchess and Leopold was the Byronic duke who brooded a lot and once stalked off to the moors after he threw a tantrum.  

A writer’s got to get her ideas from somewhere, Margaery supposed.  

But lo, as they say. An idea was also forming… 

Margaery turned suddenly to face her oldest friend. “Do you want to go after Harry?” 

“Do I want to?” 

“Well, it’s sounding a lot like you’re sick of sitting and waiting. Why not get out there and look for him?” 

Sansa looked doubtful yet a little hopeful all at once. “Do you think I could?” 

“Sure you can! At the very least, you’ll get out of the house. Get proactive! Show Harry you’re fighting for your marriage. It’s the ultimate romantic gesture, isn’t it. You’re a modern woman. You can woo.” Margaery was not modern. She did not woo.  

But Sansa mulled the idea in her head. She had never been one to woo either. But this was her marriage, not fiction. And if she truly loved her husband, she would swallow her pride and her dignity.  

“How would we even start?” 

Already there. “Where did you say the last credit card transaction was before Harry went completely offline?” 

“Singapore, I think.” 

Margaery smiled. “Perfect,” she purred. 

* * *

Like clockwork, the skies opened right on mid-afternoon and bucketed down on the island, bringing with it a temporary reprieve from the heat. 

Petyr dropped into the white rattan love seat facing out to the garden that lay beyond the covered patio at the back of the house. This was, by far, his favourite room. It was easily the heart of the home, the way all other living spaces seemed to coalesce into this space. He loved the tall ceiling lined neatly with dark timber beams, the sheer expanse of the room that made no apologies for its existence. A standard apartment in the government suburbs could fit into the entire width and depth of this space. 

But most of all, Petyr loved how the white tiled steps leading to the patio took up the entire width of the room. And how there was nothing — no fourth wall, no door, not even bamboo blinds  — separating him from the lush tropical greenery that lay beyond. 

The freedom. It was strangely liberating, to have the ass of the house hanging out completely exposed in this way. And yet, such was the security of the island. Of the country. Of Singapore. 

This stunning black-and-white room was why Petyr decided to drop an eye-watering sum of moolah to call this house his home. He figured — after renting the place for a ball-squeezing twenty-thousand Sing a night — that he was probably better off sitting down and making someone a proper offer. 

The ice-cold glass of water in his hand was already beading profusely from condensation. A drop or two had already dripped onto his belly, a small hazard of slumming shirtless around the house. And even though the fans overhead were going full bore, he could feel the mugginess in the air. Petyr breathed in the thick smell of rain and practically purred. 

It was during this moment of delectation that Margaery Tyrell decided to call.   

“Margaery.” But the smile on Petyr's face was small and affectionate. “To what do I owe this pleasure.” He waited. There was always something, and she could be amusing at times.   

“Petyr!” Her voice was low and it purred, matching his. “Darling, I’ve missed you! You’re still living in that massive house, aren’t you. The one in Singapore.” 

“I am.” He waited some more, even though he suspected the next few words out her mouth. 

“I’m planning to fly into town real soon. With a friend. She’s… ah… in need of some help.” 

“What kind of _help_ , Margaery." 

Petyr smirked. He’d played this game before. Margaery tended to have projects that got bigger than Ben Hur sometimes. He could practically hear her thoughts bubbling, her small pink tongue choosing her words. 

“She needs to find someone.” 

“Who?” 

“Her husband.” And he laughed mirthlessly.  

“Are you kidding me, Margaery. You’ve reduced me to this?  Some sodding private detective spying on some dickwad that a housewife can’t satisfy?” 

“Look. I wouldn’t ask, but she’s a total sweetheart and the dickwad has gone silent for a month. She just wants to know he’s okay. He left two months ago. I figured you’d know how to find him.” 

Petyr took another sip of his water and mulled that one for a second or two. On the one hand, this was almost a pathetic job. Sordid. These things are typically messy and emotional and tedious. And he was no P.I., really. If he wanted to do that sort of work, he would have gone into that in his retirement ages ago. 

On the other hand, he hadn’t seen Margaery for a while.  

“It’s going to cost you,” he warned. 

“Like hell you’re going to charge me. You owe me!” 

“You owe me a lot more, sweetheart.” 

A tinkling laugh that was at once familiar and brought him right back. She hadn’t changed that laugh at all since the first time he met her. “You’re right. I do," she smiled. "But I’m going to ask yet another favour. Please, Petey? For me?"  

"Why her," Petyr asked, mildly curious. "I thought you never trust women."  

"I don't. Not usually. But Sans and I go way back. When you meet her, you'll understand. You couldn't hate her. No one can. She's an absolute sweetheart. And she's hurting right now, thanks to that schmuck."  

Margaery quickly filled him in. No, he has never watched Julia Roberts in _Eat Pray Love —_ why the hell would he?And now that Margaery just explained the rough premise, he'll probably NEVER watch it ever.  

And as for marriage sabbaticals... Petyr was dumbfounded. So people actually do that sort of thing now, park a spouse? The things people in relationships do to one another.  

Petyr rolled his eyes, already sensing his defeat.  

"IF I were to allow this new madcap scheme, when were you thinking of landing me in this steaming turd of matrimonial shizz?"  

"Ahhh... doing anything tomorrow?"  

Petyr rolled his eyes. Typical, typical Margaery Tyrell.  

* * *

The flight from Melbourne direct to Singapore was uneventful — only a little turbulence over pockets of Indonesia. Margaery had chosen to splash out on First Class for both of them, rather than tolerate eight hours in Economy. She pretended that she’d used her krisflyer points for Sansa’s ticket. Sansa, of course, saw through that white lie at once.

Thankfully, she had been rather distracted throughout the flight and hadn’t insisted on something silly like paying Margaery back.  

Sansa had been a ball of excitement at first. Even though they could afford it, the Hardyngs seldom travelled, really. Twice back to England for funerals of Harrold’s grandparents, in recent memory. The trips had paid off for Harry; he got his inheritance for his efforts, in the end. But it hadn't exactly been a sightseeing kind of holiday.  

Sansa had never been to Southeast Asia — not even to the airport in Singapore in transit. She had been excited at first, peppering Margaery with questions as they frantically packed their bags in their respective homes.  

Once she got on the plane, however, Sansa grew quiet. She was still wearing her ring, despite instructions from Harry to the contrary. And while Margaery applauded her fuck-you spirit in not acquiescing to every suggestion he made, she wished that Sansa hadn’t chosen to keep her ring. 

It broke her heart a little, frankly, that Sansa was still faithfully holding on while that shitbag had dumped his wedding band in the small dish of the ensuite bathroom counter before walking away from his vows temporarily, without so much as a second look at his quietly devastated wife. And the gall of it, honestly. That he would string her along. That he couldn’t even do the decent thing and cut the ties. His safety net — that was what Sansa was to him now.  

It made Margaery's blood boil, truly.  

* * *

In what must be a rare thing in aviation history, they had landed almost a whole hour early. And even though they had entered the airport through a jet bridge, Sansa and Margaery felt the humidity fall over them like an invisible wet, clammy blanket. The air was cool inside one of Margaery’s favourite airports in the world, but it smelled different already. Thicker. Wetter.

Margaery hadn’t bothered to call Petyr, opting instead to hail a cab which was easy enough to do. Sansa was still quiet, eyes bleary even though they had travelled the Red Eye in First. She was taking in her surroundings with keen interest, but it wasn’t until they were in the taxi speeding along a highway flanked by endless pink blossom bushes that Sansa squeaked, 

“They’re so beautiful, you notice?” 

“What, darling? The bushes?” 

“The locals. The women. They’re petite and delicate and pretty… What if Harry falls for one of them? He’s technically not married. He’s not wearing his ring… How would they know he’s got a wife? And he’s so handsome—” Sansa's voice caught then, and she hastily turned away to look out the window at the blur of cars and greenery.   

Margaery reached an arm over and gripped Sansa’s shoulder tight, even with the seatbelts on between them both.  

“He’s still married,” Margaery reminded her fiercely. "And why would he fall for anyone when he has _you,_ chickadee.” 

It was empty comfort, but it was the best she could do. 

* * *

The cab driver had deposited them in front of the tall black metal gates, assuring them over and over that they had come to the right place. Sansa sure hoped so. Petyr’s house had turned out to be buried deep in a suburb that was green and leafy, with twisty small roads that sometimes opened up to huge mansions. The more they had driven further in, the more nervous Sansa had gotten. She didn’t know Petyr at all, only that he was Margaery’s friend — and even she had been vague on details. She hoped feverishly that they’d all get along, that he wouldn’t mind them. It was awfully nice of him to accommodate them at such short notice...

The house in front of them looked modest in comparison to some of its leviathan neighbours. It was a smart looking house, and Sansa wondered if it was heritage listed. It wasn’t very tall — only two stories. But the entire house looked so smart with its white-washed walls and jet-black trim. Potted plants, some with that same bush they had seen on the highway, accented the tall white pillars. The entire building looked happily ensconced in a dewy bed of lush, tropical green velvet.  

Margaery found an intercom button eventually and buzzed. 

A crackle, before a timid voice answered in what Margaery had to interpret as a thickly-accented, “Hello?” 

“Hello!” Margaery answered brightly. “We’re here to see Petyr.” 

“Peeeetah?” the frail voice answered, a woman’s. Margaery guessed she might be older.

“Yes, Petyr. Petyr Baelish?” 

And then, as if she had just uttered the secret password, that voice suddenly came to life. 

“Peetah, ah? Peetah—“ And a string of words flowed, thick and fast, excited and absolutely foreign. Margaery blinked.  

“Um… hello? Do you speak any English?” 

And then they both heard a man's voice. Except he was speaking just as fluently in that foreign tongue they just heard, only slower. The chatter of the excitable lady soon faded away and the gate suddenly opened. 

Sansa and Margaery wheeled their bags up a small slope and around a long driveway until they reached the tall double doors, painted white with that same black trim. Sansa looked down then, and what she saw made her gasp in unexpected delight. For under their feet lay a gorgeous floor made of black and white art deco tiles. Sansa bent down immediately to trace a finger around a pattern, mouth shaped in awe. 

_It’s just so beautiful_ , she breathed to herself.  

The door flung open suddenly. And then a lean figure appeared, completely shirtless and browned. A long, silvery-white scar drew Sansa's eye immediately from that space between his collarbone right down… down... past his toned stomach, until she had to turn away suddenly, slightly uncomfortable. His hair was tousled and curled around the neck, as if he had just woken up. It was just touching seven in the morning, after all. 

That man, whom Sansa could only surmise to be Petyr Baelish, was wearing little else except a deep scowl.  

“Bloody oath, Tyrell,” Petyr growled, unimpressed. “Give a man some notice next time, will ya?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *For the uninitiated, [_I've Been To Me_ by Charlene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SZgIk2b68gQ).


	2. Take my breath away

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162326344@N04/41113619611/in/dateposted-public/)

“Petyr, darling!” And Margaery went on tip-toe and planted a breezy kiss on Petyr’s stubbly cheek, completely nonplussed by the grimace still etched on his still-handsome face. A plume of expensive musk and rose wrapped around his head.  

“ _So_ sorry we’re early. I should have called ahead. But your airport is _terribly_ efficient. So fast. And then there were heaps of taxis and our driver drove like a crazy thing, and your neighbours’ houses are _gorgeous,_  and then we’d arrived before we could even say boo! _Plus_ , I’d been distracted chatting to Sansa.” 

Petyr had been vaguely aware of a figure bent over just below his waist, and a hasty scramble to its feet before Margaery had descended upon his neck like a feather boa. But at the sound of her name, Petyr watched as Margaery stepped aside like a curtain, just when Sansa was trying valiantly to toss her thick, autumnal mane away from her face. 

The morning sun had been steadily climbing since he’d stumbled down the stair and the dappled light from the flame trees behind the two women seemed right now to catch each dancing, curling tendril of the porcelain-perfect stranger before him and set it on fire. 

Petyr lost his scowl, his breath, his voice, and all of his wits. 

All he did instead was to stand stock-still and stare. 

“You must be Petyr,” he heard her sweet, musical voice say and before he could gather two words to rub together, Sansa fished out from seemingly nowhere a brown little bag tied with a bow, before flinging her arms around his neck. 

“Oh thank you,” she gasped, holding him tight, the little bag still clenched in her hand. “Thank you, _thank you_ for sharing your home! And with such short notice! And you don’t even know me!” 

“It’s alright,” he replied gruffly into her hair and squashed the terrible urge to breathe all of her sweetness in. 

Sansa pulled herself back hastily and suddenly looked shy. “Oh don’t mind me,” she mumbled, and started to blush a dull red although Petyr wondered if it wasn’t more from the heat than anything else. Sansa looked like the sort that pinked up easily. 

At the last, Petyr squashed terrible, _terrible_ thoughts before they travelled straight down to his half-awake dick. 

Sansa pushed the small little brown bag into Petyr’s hands just then, and Margaery groaned slightly.  

“Here,” Sansa smiled, still shyly. “I brought you a little something from Haigh’s chocolates. They’re an Australian brand, originally from Adelaide.” 

“Don’t look at me,” Margaery interjected, holding up her hands, “I told her she shouldn't have bothered.” 

Petyr clutched the bag in both his hands and summoned his warmest smile. “That’s very thoughtful,” he replied and was thoroughly appalled at how husky he sounded.  

He hadn’t the heart to tell Sansa that he was allergic to caffeine. And thank goodness Margaery seemed to have forgotten that as well. 

* * *

In the midst of _Tai Jie_ cackling about Petyr being a normal man after all, he managed to get Margaery and all of her goddamn bags up the stairs and into her room. _Tai Jie_ had screeched about scratch marks and hygiene and marble and wood when the two women had wandered in, forgetting to take off their shoes. It was probably a good thing neither of them understood colourful village Cantonese. For as long as she’d cared for the house,  _Tai Jie_  had always been particular about the bloody floor.

Breakfast had turned out to be a rather subdued affair. Sansa had been polite but distracted, while Margaery and Petyr had caught up on light gossip, careful not to give away too much detail. Despite the time difference — their body clocks were three hours ahead of his — Sansa was still feeling tired and eventually begged off for a quick nap, smiling wanly at them before slipping up to her room. He watched her leg up the stairs two at a time, lithe as a sprinter. She had the best legs this side of the hemisphere. 

Gods. 

“She hardly slept on the plane,” Margaery volunteered, once Sansa was out of earshot. “Perfect waste of a first-class seat. It was practically a bed, but I knew she didn’t sleep.” 

Margaery leaned in now. 

“Can you help us, please? Say you will.” 

“What’s the story?” Petyr tried not to sound too hungry for details. Margaery could act the ditz, but she was as sharp as tacks.  

She glanced upward at the stair and Petyr tipped his head towards the back of the house. They stood up, each taking their drink and coaster with them. 

“It’s such a cliché, really. Seven-year itch. They’ve been married almost exactly seven years, when Harry decided to up sticks and walk out on his wife. It was all very sudden, from what Sansa said.” 

“You don’t think so?” Petyr asked neutrally. 

Margaery pursed her lips unhappily. “They married very young. Sansa’s only twenty-six, almost twenty-seven. Harry’s not much older, maybe two years? I forget. They met through family friends after Sansa had been through a string of dropkicks in high school. That poor girl, she’s just a magnet for the psychos. After all that, _of course_ Harry looked like a flippin’ shiny knight on a white steed. They went out for a year and then he proposed.” 

“No kids?” 

Margaery shrugged. “They’re trying not to worry about it, Sansa told me. Personally, I think he’s shooting blanks.” 

“How do you know? She got checked?” 

“My girl is _perfect_ ,” Margaery retorted, glaring slightly at Petyr over the rim of her cup to seal her point. Petyr put a hand up as if in surrender. Especially since he privately agreed with Margaery’s assessment.  

Petyr pulled his hand down his face irritably. _Gods. Pull yourself the fuck together._

“Tell me about your perfect friend, then.” The words had run away from his mind straight out of his mouth and he cringed inwardly. But thankfully, Margaery was still in a gossipy mood. “How do you know her?” 

“Friends of friends. Our families’ social circles overlap somewhere, and we saw each other on and off once or twice a year. The adults get tipsier and tipsier and the kids get left alone to wander the grounds and steal sips of booze. There weren’t many other girls back then. Sansa and I ended up playing a lot together. She’s one of my oldest friends.” 

“So moneyed and spoilt like you, then,” Petyr teased. 

“Uh uh,” Margaery was quick to correct, wagging a slim manicured finger. “I’ll be the first to admit I’ve made my fortune largely by marrying and ditching rich douchebags. But Sansa here is a self-made woman. Oh her family’s rich enough, I suppose. But she doesn’t need Daddy’s money.” 

“Oh?” 

“Absolutely. Ever heard of Alayne Stone?” 

Petyr squinted. “Can’t say I ha—“ 

“Well, that’s Sansa’s pen name, and she’s huge. Real popular. Writes all sorts.” 

“Really!" 

“ _Nights in Fitzroy Falls?_ _How to Abduct a Rake?_ _Succubus Sweetheart?_ _The Handsome Devil in my Bed?_ All hers.” 

Petyr made a face. “I thought you said she writes all sorts of books!” 

“They’re all sorts of _romances_ , Petyr. Historical, paranormal, contemporary… She’s celebrated! New York Times Bestsellers, some of them.” 

“That’s not saying very much, actually,” murmured Petyr darkly.  

“Not everyone’s cynical like you,” Margaery jabbed. “And at least she’s working. Harrold Hardyng just literally waits for money to fall from the sky.” 

“And has it?” 

Margaery snorted. “ _Thrice_. Dead grandparents, and then his kid-uncle suddenly died two years ago and left him the entire Arryn estate.” 

“Lucky bastard."  

Margaery wrinkled her nose as if she’d just smelled wet socks. 

“So Harrold's gone AWOL, you were saying?” 

Margaery nodded. “He was using their shared account for a while. Bastard was too cheap to dip into his own inheritance, but at least this way we were able to track where he was through his credit card transactions. He was in Malaysia for a time, then Thailand, some resort islands in Indonesia even. Day trips now and then. Last transaction was from here,” Margaery’s eyes narrowed, “at the Shangri-La.” 

“So much for slumming it,” commented Petyr wryly. 

“After that, the transactions stopped. I think he finally figured out that he was leaving a trail of breadcrumbs. But Sansa got worried sick for a while there, thinking he got kidnapped or arrested for drug trafficking because someone planted something in his bag... girl’s watched too much cable TV, if you ask me. I’m pretty sure the idiot's still alive,” Margaery grimaced. 

“Probably,” replied Petyr mildly. “Always good to check, I suppose.” He smirked. “Though you’re awfully cavalier about the whole thing.” 

Margaery leaned forward and her eyes were flashing now. “After what that asshat’s put her through, I don’t mind if he disappears altogether, frankly.” 

A loaded silence settled heavy in the space between them and Petyr took another long sip of ice-cold water from his glass. “I suppose that could be arranged,” he replied at length, and then shrugged. “Pity you’re such a cheapskate, though.” 

A long, lazy smile spread across Petyr’s face slowly. Margaery sat back in her seat, flicked her dark hair back and laughed. 

* * *

Sansa stared at the dark timber beams reaching toward each other like fingers forming a bridge against the stark-white high pitched roof. The ceiling fans in her room were currently set on low and turning lazily. In the time she lay gazing up, Sansa could feel the swelter from beyond the verandah slowly steal into her room like a hot cloud. The heat of the day was just at the cusp of needing the air-conditioner turned on but Sansa was loathed to move.

It was a gorgeous manor — though not as massive as Margaery had hoped. Her friend’s shoulders had literally sagged in disappointment when their taxi had finally pulled up and she'd realised that Petyr had meant “massive” to mean “massive to him”.  Sansa privately thought the house was magic — all that dramatic black-and-white inside and out, almost Tudor-like with those shutter windows and doors… and yet with such a distinctive tropical influence. Those white boxy pillars everywhere, as if the house were almost standing on stilts. Dark minimal wooden furniture softened by swathes of cream and silk blended into each room tastefully, accented by pops of colour and chinoiserie that clashed as much as they complemented. The house looked magazine-perfect yet comfortably lived-in. 

Sansa’s room itself had a large square art piece on the blank wall facing her bed — an acrylic on canvas, created by someone Sansa could only guess to be a local. It was elegant in its seeming simplicity — just dark teal paint on the whitest white. A bold print motif of large and small flowers artfully embraced a tall local Chinese beauty wearing a traditional dress with a high mandarin collar and a slit down one side. Her back was to the room, her dark hair done in an intricate bun at the nape of her neck. The beauty was looking over her shoulder and off to the side so Sansa could just make out her profile — her unusually sharp features, her heavily-made eyes, her open, happy smile… 

The entire piece was hand-painted, and yet it was done in such a way as to look like a print by a rubber stamp. _Very clever_ , Sansa thought, both of the artist and the woman in the picture. Sansa wondered if Harry had seen thousands of women just like this one and preferred them all to his own wife. 

He still had not called. If he did, maybe he’d learn at last that his poor, wretched wife — successful international romance writer now made an  _utter_ _fraud_ — was finally here in the same continent as he. 

Speaking of writing… Sansa sighed deeply and closed her eyes before she reached for her phone. It was time to face the music.  

Her editor answered within three rings, as she always did. 

“Olenna Tyrell.” 

“Olenna, it’s me. Sansa.” 

“Sansa!” The greeting dripped with warmth, but Sansa still knew to brace herself. “How is Singapore? Have you started shopping? Has my granddaughter already exceeded the baggage allowance?” 

Sansa giggled slightly. “She kinda did that already flying here. But they allowed it because we were travelling in First.” 

“And because you, darling girl, are sensible enough to pack light. How many shoes did she bring this time?” 

A memory of Petyr snapping at Margaery when he realised the suitcase he was lugging up the stairs contained nothing except her Louboutins. _“They do sell the bloody things here as well, you know."_

Sansa bit her lip to hide her grin.  

Olenna read the diplomatic silence. “That many, huh.” Sansa heard the amusement in the older woman’s voice. Margaery had always been her favourite. 

“And how’s the book coming along, darling. Have you started writing?” 

“Ah… about that…” 

“I hope you didn’t just call to tell me that you’re wanting to push the deadline again, my dear. I’ll be very disappointed if you were.”  

“Oh?” Sansa replied faintly.  

“You’ve been in the game long enough, Sansa. You know we can’t afford to wait more than eighteen months. Gotta strike while your name is still hot. There’s always so many up and coming ones…” And Olenna added, not unkindly, “it will put those rumours to rest. The press have already been sniffing around here about Harry.” 

“Oh?” replied Sansa, now feeling faint. 

“I told them both of you are fine, your marriage is fine, there is no secret floozy. And with a straight face, I told them you’re both in Southeast Asia together. At least that much is true. It’s a good thing Margaery dragged you there, chickie. Now at least you and Harry look like you’re having a romantic holiday together.” 

Sansa winced visibly, except Olenna Tyrell couldn’t see. But the older woman could sense it all the same and sighed. 

“I’m sorry, dear. But on a slow-news day, the tabloids like a bit of a scandal. Harry’s rather famous — or infamous — as it is, what with the Arryn fortune falling in his lap like that. You’re both the envy and darling of the Millennials, just waiting to be brought down by petty media. It’d be rather too much to hope that the press _not_  write about the Princess of Romance… you know…” 

“Losing her own prince?” Sansa’s voice sounded strange, but at least it wasn’t thick with tears. 

“Something like that.” Olenna clicked her tongue sympathetically. “The best defence is offence, as you know. Live well, or at least damn well look like it. Use your time away in the name of research and come back to Australia with a brand new tan and a sizzling new book deal waiting for you, hmm? You might be just in time for the Australian summer beach reads this year, if you’re fast enough. And then you can build up enough of a momentum to hit the American summer market hard next year. You’re in a tropical island paradise of sorts. Surely it’ll be inspiration enough for such a theme, hmm?” 

Sansa wasn’t so sure. But Sansa was not about to refuse Olenna now, not while the threat of the tabloids hung over her head. It was _such_ a low blow, truly. But Olenna did have a point. 

“Have a walk around the place, see if you don’t find something to write about,” soothed the canny tyrant. “I know you’re hunting down your man, but in between the Where’s Wally, surely you can knock out some plot and prose, hmm? Why don’t I check in with you next week. See if you can pitch me an idea by then, alright?” 

_Next week?_ Sansa squeezed her eyes shut in despair. Then again, it would buy her some time with Olenna. And maybe she _would_ find inspiration among all this art deco and oriental gorgeousness. 

“Alright, Olenna,” Sansa heard herself say. 

She could practically hear the triumphant smile stretching tight across the wizened face of the formidable Olenna Tyrell.  

“Now _that’s_ my romantic girl,” the founder and editorial director of _Consummate Publishing_  purred like a large big cat. 

* * *

_Why is this country so muggy!_

Margaery was determined not to look put out, even though she was quietly fuming. Her own grandmother had thwarted her plans for a grand day of shopping by scaring poor Sansa into locking herself in her room to meditate until inspiration came for her book contract. And Petyr! Instead of driving her to the city when she had asked, the man had the gall to grin at her instead and point to her own phone.  

“Call a cab, Tyrell,” he had drawled. “I’m not your fucking chauffeur. I’ve got things to do.” 

“Things? What things?” 

“Some of us have work,” he’d replied glibly. 

“You’re on a _job?!_ ” Margaery had been appalled. “You didn’t tell me you’re on a job!” But Petyr had simply waved his hand, as if swatting away her indignation like a sticky housefly. 

“No, not that kind of work. I’m lecturing now.” 

And Margaery had laughed. “You’re joking me. Where!” 

“One of the local Unis.” He'd shrugged. “Just once a week. In between my thesis.” 

“Your _thesis?_ ” 

Another shrug. “Got given a scholarship.” 

“Scholarship! By whom!” And even Margaery had started to feel like a shrieky little parrot. 

“The local government,” he’d smirked and this time, Margaery had been sure to close her mouth instead of shouting back exactly what she’d just heard like a daft echo.  

“Why! How!” 

He'd rubbed his knuckles along his growing goatee, feeling the bristles on his chin against the flat of his fingers. “They like my skills,” he’d replied mildly, “and they’re interested to see how far I can take one of my previous... experiments. That, and the fact that they waved a nice carrot in the form of some rather irresistible tax breaks.” And this time, Petyr had not even bothered hiding his glee.  

“So you can’t drive me to the city.” 

“I’m not your fucking chauffeur, Tyrell. Call a cab or an Uber like a normal human being.” 

“You’re cruel.” 

“You’re a princess. And I’m going to be late.” 

Which was how Margaery wound up here, alighting at a taxi stand like a peasant after a hell of a ride that still left her insides squeamish and profusely thankful for seatbelt laws. No way in hell was she going to rent a car and drive after _that_ , Margaery darkly concluded. Not if she had to contend with any number of local taxi drivers armed to the teeth with Defensive Driving Skills. And even though the Uber ride had been fully air-conditioned, the moment she'd stepped out the car, the hot wet air had hit her like a sauna. 

Margaery's hair was already sticking to her neck and she was now seriously nervous about the state of her make-up. Still, an update for _Lipp!_ was waiting. Margaery found a spot just inside the enormous Raffles City mall, and angled her phone so she shared the limelight with the cute little thousand-dollar _cheongsam_ hanging in the window display. All was well and good until gut feeling made her blow up the photo she just posted. True enough, bits of tissue were still stuck to her neck where she’d dabbed earlier at her perspiration. Margaery muffled a horrified scream. There were already thirty Likes.  

_I need a drink._

The Swissôtel was attached to this mall and even though it was iconic in its way, (it once used to be the tallest hotel in the world), Margaery now knew _exactly_ what she needed right then. She didn’t care if it was a touristy cliché — Petyr was not here to roll his eyes and judge. But what about Sans! Poor Sansa would have _loved_ for them to do this together; it had been high on their list, after all. But Margaery shook her head. _No._  She could always bring Sansa back and pretend to do this together for the first time. But right now, what Margaery Tyrell truly craved was a chilled glass of Singapore Sling at the legendary Raffles Hotel. 

* * *

The Raffles Hotel was a grand old dame oozing class, history, and aloof entitlement. Built in the 1830s as an extravagant beach house way back in the backslapping days where imperialists smoked cigars and appropriated small Asian nations by polite suggestion, the three-storey hotel now sat in serene contrast to its sky-scraping, brash neighbours who towered over it. For the fourth most densely-populated country _in the world_ , a squat, sprawling building in the heart of the city was a most indulgent ostentation*. 

Margaery could have sworn the air under the verandah of the Raffles Hotel already smelled of privilege and civilisation. She wandered past shop after shop, her heart already blithe and full, forgetting for a moment what she'd crossed the road under the abusive sun for. The mall she had started off in had literally been just across the street. If she had known that the Raffles Hotel was just here, she would have started her first proper shopping day in Singapore here instead. 

She wandered and meandered around shop, post and pillar until she found herself in a prettyish courtyard in the centre of the building. Even though it was open-air and exposed to the humidity, there were still a few patrons gathered in pairs around white wrought iron bistro chairs and tables. Margaery was suddenly tempted. She spied the bar serving the courtyard; it was just under the expansive verandah to her left. A tinkle of glass drew her attention and she finally spied what she guessed to be that most coveted of drinks: the Singapore Sling. 

Margaery was making her way slowly over, carefully picking her way through the wrought iron chairs, when she turned a corner to find a most extraordinary sight.  

He was dressed from top to toe in shades of cream and white, a gentleman of a certain age. And even though he was wearing a three-piece suit in the friggin’ tropics, Margaery _knew_ this man was the very epitome of Cool. His face was stern, imperious; his mouth was set in a thin line that turned downward naturally in a sneer. His nose was hooked, his profile aquiline and royal. But most of all, Margaery was drawn to his eyes — they were hawk-like, watchful, hooded, and scarily intelligent. Right now, he was holding up a copy of the local broadsheet — _The Straits Times_ , Margaery read the masthead. 

He looked like a bloody _colonist_. All that was missing was the Safari-brimmed hat. And maybe a cigar.  

Margaery felt herself cross over to him before she even knew what she was going to say. In his right lapel sat a single red rose. 

Margaery really liked roses.  

“Nice flower,” she heard herself drawl, the words purring low from the side of her mouth. “Are you in the habit of dressing like an imperialist in the Raffles Hotel, of all places?” 

The man swivelled the full force of his gaze from his morning paper to Margaery Tyrell’s face and the girl, in spite of her best efforts, felt her heart start to flutter wildly while a certain heaviness descended southwards... 

“It’s a warm day,” he observed, “and that is why I am wearing white.” At that admission, Margaery leaned into the iron chair in front of her for support. His voice was low and clear. Commanding. And terribly, _terribly_ English. Margaery never knew how sexy Received Pronunciation could sound until now.  

Margaery was horrified. 

_— He’s friggin’ old!_

_— So what. He’s unreal. Just look at him!_

_— I_ am _looking at him! He’s dressed like Colonel Sanders!_

_— He_ commands _like a Colonel. Oh, yes sir!_

Margaery watched as the man unhurriedly folded away his newspaper. Everyone else got their news on their phones and televisions now, but Sexy Colonist here obviously liked it old school. 

Margaery wondered if there was anything else he liked. Old school. 

She shook her head suddenly, as if cold or mad. _Snap out of it!_

“I’m going to get a drink,” she heard herself say instead, and tilted her chin towards the bar. 

“Let me guess,” he replied and the bass of his voice made her insides get all trembly. “A glass of Singapore Sling.” A corner of his mouth tipped up ever so slightly. He was mocking her. 

“Pfft,” Margaery snorted. “Nothing so prosaic, please. Just a Long Island Iced Tea.” 

“You surprise me. A slip of a girl like you… Those things can pack quite the punch.”  

Margaery smiled. “It’s a good thing I’m not planning on going anywhere.” 

Something deep inside her started to shriek and shriek and shriek like an alarm. Margaery never, ever, EVER flirted first. Much less with a geriatric.  

Margaery just did. 

“Then allow me,” he replied smoothly, and snapped his fingers in the air as if he were in 1849. A Chinese waiter materialised immediately, and the Colonist ordered her Long Iced Tea and a sparkling mineral water for himself. 

“Aren’t you drinking?” she asked, surprised. 

“Oh, I never drink when I’m about to start something interesting.” He gestured to the chair beside him and Margaery dropped herself gracefully into it, even though her body was now thrumming with anticipation. 

_One drink, Tyrell. It’s only one drink_. 

Margaery watched as the Colonist settled back into his chair with the practised ease and languid confidence of a prowling lion. He stretched his legs, and she tried to guess how tall he was. Six-two? Six-three, even. She wondered if he was proportional _everywhere…_

Margaery groaned, then hid the sound behind a cough. When she looked back up at him, she almost flushed. He did not look like he had bought that cough at all. 

“You are not what I was expecting from my day,” the Colonist suddenly volunteered. 

“And what, exactly, are you expecting from your day?” 

“A beautiful woman, maybe. But not this. Not you.” 

And Margaery pressed herself into the chair and tried very hard not to do something asinine like swoon. Over a man nearly old enough to be her grandpa. 

“Well if it makes you feel any better,” Margaery replied airily, “I really wasn’t expecting _you_.” 

The Colonist’s mouth moved into something almost resembling a smile. 

“Have I exceeded expectations?” 

Margaery looked over the brim of her glass. She took a long sip and made him wait. He seemed to like that, judging from the devouring look he gave her mingled with something almost akin to pride. 

“What if I say that you have?” Margaery’s voice was dangerously low now. It had switched to full seduction mode and she didn’t even have to try. 

“Then I’ll say — stay with me awhile. That is, if you don’t have anything else planned today.”  

“I don’t have anything else planned today.” 

“Call me Tywin.” 

“Just Tywin?” 

“Only Tywin.” 

Margaery quirked a smile. “Call me Alayne,” she smoothly lied in return.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *For Treachery readers, if you're wondering why the Raffles Hotel sounds familiar, it's because I'd drawn inspiration for Hotel Hightower from the Raffles Hotel. 
> 
> Also — and I know I hardly say this now — but I love your comments. So please feel free to drop by and say hello. I do so love a chat! xx


	3. To leap to conclusions

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162326344@N04/40218827055/in/dateposted-public/)

Petyr dragged his hand down his face once more, as if he could wipe his expression back to neutral. Nothing, not a scrap of work done. Not an iota.  _Completely_ wasted morning, and he knew only too well why. His ears had pricked up at every sound overhead, his skin prickling in the heat and only too aware of Sansa’s proximity to him. Petyr had spent a — frankly — embarrassing length of time picturing her snoozing, flushed cheeks on his guest room pillow. And then she had been on the phone. He knew, because she had paced at one point, her muffled dulcet tones lilting out the window. And in that time, he had read the same damn sentence over and over while he'd strained to make out her thoughts and her plans.  

_You’ve mentally calculated landing coordinates all while facing serious fucktage by gravity_. _Find your focus, goddammit!_

Five short hours since they arrived this morning. And just two since Margaret breezily left him all alone in the house with _her_.  

Well, alone... if one didn’t count _Tai Jie,_ of course. 

His own housekeeper had already needled him twice about nipping upstairs to introduce himself properly in Margaery’s absence. _“Make_ good _friends with her,”_ she now grinned toothily, and the words the crone just chose suggested something infinitely baser. _Dirty old cow,_ Petyr smirked with a tinge of fondness. Thank fuck Sansa didn’t understand anything _Tai Jie_ said.  

_“You know you’re only here because you came with the house, right.”_   

_“Not every day a beautiful woman with fire hair stays in your house, little Master,” Tai Jie_ called out after him, her shrill, brittle voice carrying through the house. _“You’re old now — but that’s okay! Don’t worry — young pretty girls like old men, you know. More experience.”_

"Oh for fuck's sake..." Petyr muttered just then, but that only served to crack _Tai Jie_ up more. Her cackles bounced off the whitewashed walls and carried through the lattice-style transom windows all the way to the kitchen before she closed the door behind her. 

“Hi,” a shy voice piped up right behind him and it was only because of his well-honed reflexes that Petyr managed to avoid jumping out of his skin. 

Instead he turned around, a small tight smile on his face. “Hi.” 

“Um…” and Sansa shuffled sheets of paper within a thin, translucent-blue folder. Petyr noted the curl of vines patterned across the cover, dotted with blossoms of something. He’d never seen stationery this inordinately girly. She stuck the folder out awkwardly then. 

"Margaery and I—" and she corrected herself with a shake of her head. “I have my bank statements here. Credit card transactions, ATM withdrawals, a record of our shared accounts dating back to three months ago… This is how we figured that Harry was still in southeast Asia, although we’re not sure where.” 

Petyr took the file gently from her hands and smiled genuinely then. “Are you sure you want me to look at these?” 

Sansa hesitated, and then she gave a tiny nod. “Margee trusts you.” Her eyes widened then. “She says you’re brilliant. And I believe her.” 

Such simple faith in the innate goodness of humanity. Petyr stifled a groan. Utter babe in the woods.  

He opened the folder and glanced at the top sheet. _Singapore… Langkawi… Singapore… Phuket… Singapore… Kuala Lumpur..._

He closed the folder again and pursed his lips. Just as well that Tyrell was never going to pay. Otherwise, he might just feel like he was hustling her, for once.  

* * *

This was highly irregular, thought Margaery. But so was the opportunity to tour the marginally bigger of the two presidential suites of the Raffles Hotel.

Margaery squelched the urge to whip out her phone and go _mad_ for _Lipp!_ At least, she couldn’t possibly do that in front of her distinguished host. Or could she. 

She _couldn’t_. Stop thinking about it.  

Margaery turned back to look at her unsmiling host, careful to maintain a breezy carelessness that, if she were to be perfectly honest, had actually melted away in the heat hours ago, along with her make-up. 

_Highly irregular,_ thought Margaery again, rather annoyed with herself. They hadn’t even taken a stroll around the rest of the second floor. Just straight to his suite. _That_ had been the full extent of the Raffles Hotel personal tour by posh hotel regular, “Only Tywin”.  

The low, pleasant croon of the telephone interrupted their respective musings then. Tywin excused himself and took the call in the parlour, leaving Margaery to explore the rest of the suite on her own.  

Like Petyr’s house, the suite was elegantly appointed — although she was under no illusions about the true extravagance behind the hand-picked minimalist dark wood furnishing and understated antique local botanical art decorating the walls. She counted a parlour, a dining room, two bedrooms with attached bathrooms of course, a small pantry and a private verandah that connected them all. Margaery took in the teakwood flooring, the gorgeous Oriental rugs, the creamy-white stately rounded windows and garden doors so emblematic of British colonial architecture.  

And in the sprawling main bedroom, the fourteen-foot ceiling practically dwarfed the mahogany king four-poster. It even managed to make Tywin look a little less intimidating and puissant.  

He was walking to her now, looking particularly puissant. And pissed. 

Margaery almost screamed when he wrapped his powerful, large hands around her throat. 

_“Who are you!”_ His voice was like Shere Khan’s, low and menacing.   

And by some bizarre fortuity, she had the presence of mind to stammer out her cover name.  

“Alayne!” 

“That’s what you say,” he fairly growled in her face and poor, terrified Margaery strove instead to look bored. She landed somewhere between constipated and quizzical instead. But at least she didn’t look anywhere close to wanting to whizz her pants.   

“What’s going on?” 

“The agency just called to say that they got their time zones mixed up and _Diane_ should be coming to me now.” 

“Agency?” Margaery’s mind was racing. 

“And yet,” Tywin continued, his hands still around her throat, his shadow now over her as he stepped even closer still, backing her towards the cream-white wall. “And _yet_ … you knew to find me in that courtyard. And comment on my rose.” 

“But I seriously like roses!” 

“Who sent you!” His words, his eyes, his hands hardened, his patience finally snapping. “Do you think me such an easily smitten old fool that I wouldn’t find out? _Do you know who I am!_ ” 

“Stop it!” Margaery yelled now, her back against the wall. She grabbed his wrist and tried to prise his grip over her neck. He wasn’t squeezing. Not yet, anyway. But he wasn’t yielding either. 

A thought flew past. “Who the hell is Diane!” 

And then it clicked. And the quick succession of emotions contorting Margaery’s face finally gave Tywin pause.  

“What agency?” she now asked, her tone sharp. 

“None of your business.” He withdrew his hands from her throat, although his eyes were still suspicious.  

“You just insinuated I’m some kind of Mata Hari or something. So it’s your turn, Mr Strangle. _What agency!_ ” 

And then the final piece of the puzzle slid into place. The full picture clouded into view and Margaery was mortified.   

“Did you think I was a… an…  _escort?!_ " 

And from the chagrined look on Tywin’s face, Margaery knew she had hit home. Her face grew hot. 

“Do I _look,”_ she grit out slowly, "like a hooker to you?!" 

But Tywin was still glaring at Margaery. “So you’re not pretending to be from the agency.” 

“Hell no!” 

“And you were… really asking me about the rose. And my suit. And the drinks… and the conversation after… and this…” He gestured vaguely to the room, to the fact that she now stood in it. “You aren’t an informer.” 

“What kind of world do you live in!” Margaery almost yelled, so astonished that her usually smooth forehead was now actually creasing from her surprise-brows.  

Raffles Hotel and hot old man be damned. Margaery Tyrell was out of here. 

Her eyes blazing, she grabbed her bags and wriggled through an opening between the wall and Tywin's imposing, sinfully well-dressed frame. “I’ve never been so insulted in my _life!_ ” she cried. 

He caught her wrist so she jerked and the break in momentum empowered him to spin her easily into his embrace. She collided hard into his tall, broad chest and got a lungful of wood and musk and _him_.  

Tywin looked down at her now, and even though the word was stern and brooked no argument, Margaery could read the sheepish apology in his eyes. 

“Stay." 

* * *

It was almost touching on one o’clock when Petyr and Sansa finally gave up waiting for Margaery. All they had gotten from her at mid-morning was a short, opaque message about being unexpectedly detained and to not expect her back so soon.

Sansa’s thick, damp hair was now heavy with fruity perfume, having just stepped out of the shower before slipping into a thin summery sundress. The spaghetti straps ended above a wide neckline that dipped just low enough to reveal a hint of cleavage but it was modest overall, ending just above the knees. Sweet, really. An almost vintage print of tiny flowers and leaves, breathable cotton seasoned and faded after regular washing. An old, comfortable favourite, Petyr guessed. There were no buttons, no zips, no fasteners. To whip the damn thing off, one would have to pull the entire dress up and over... 

Petyr dragged his hand down his face once more, and then shifted in his seat. 

_Tai Jie_ had made them both lunch without Petyr needing to ask, and he watched now as Sansa tucked into her first truly local meal since she arrived on the island. Her second breakfast had been toast and tea, but lunch was now a steaming-hot bowl of noodles. Clear, peppery, homemade soup with handmade wontons, sliced carrots and Chinese mushrooms, and chopped leafy green vegetables.  

Sansa watched as the bowl was placed before her. She leaned over to Petyr then and he breathed her in discreetly. 

“How do you say ‘thank you’ to _Tai Chair_?” she murmured in his ear. 

" _Mm-goi_ ,” he murmured back in her ear. “ _Mm-goi-sai_ , if you want to be ardent.” 

She turned immediately to _Tai Jie_ and her smile was megawatt as she beamed at the older woman, who now looked leery and rather taken aback.  

“Mmmm-koi-sigh!” Sansa smiled. The inflexion was completely off, but the older woman gave a tentative nod before scurrying back into the kitchen. Petyr squashed a grin. 

“Did I say it wrong?” Sansa looked at Petyr anxiously then and he hid a smile.  

“No,” he replied, not quite looking at her. “It was perfect.” 

They ate in silence then, Sansa working her chopsticks quietly. She had some skills there but the noodles were slippery in the soup and eventually she made like spaghetti and started twirling. Points there for improvisation, he supposed.  

“Have you lived here long?” she asked after a while. He had just gently taken her chopsticks out of the bowl, teaching her the finer points of where to rest her utensils in between as she stretched her hand that was growing cramp. Apparently, there were good ways and rude ways. Sansa wished fervently she had done her research before coming. 

“Not that long. About four years?” 

“And the language… did you take classes?” She looked so earnest then that Petyr knew to squelch the urge to bark a laugh at the idea.   

“No… no…,” he replied neutrally. “I picked it up along the way. There are lots of languages and dialects spoken here, usually meshed together in a single sentence. Though _Tai Jie_ speaks a particularly unique brand of a dialect called Cantonese, and with only three teeth. _That_ took a little longer to discern.” And because Sansa looked so riveted by what he was saying, he found himself adding, "She’s not from Singapore — she came from a tiny rural village in China when she was just a girl and grew up with a rich family. Served them for three generations before they suddenly went broke and had to sell up. They couldn’t keep her, but she’s not known anything else and she’s got no family left in her village.” He shrugged. “I guess she came with the house.” 

“And that was four years ago?” 

“Closer to two.”  

Sansa smiled. “You two look like you’ve been family to each other for a lot longer than that.” 

He didn’t know what to say to that, and so they resumed their silence over their meal.  

“And what about you,” he asked at length. “What are your plans in Singapore?” 

“Find Harry,” she replied instantly. “Bring him home. But also, I just called my editor and, well, she’s not happy that I haven’t started writing.” 

“You have a deadline.” 

“And absolutely _no_ story,” she admitted at last with a rush of air and immediately felt better for the confession. “I’ve been spending the last hour and a half wondering what I’m going to do!” She sighed deeply then. “It’s hard to write a love story when your own is in such a mess.” 

“Write about that, then,” he suggested. “I’m sure it will resonate.” 

“It feels too raw for me to write about, frankly.” But she smiled at Petyr gratefully. It was good to talk to a fresh set of ears about her problems. But she didn’t want to overdo it, of course. He was just being polite, she was sure. 

“I need a library,” she sighed again. “I get ideas when I’m in a library or somewhere surrounded by books. And then it’s easy enough to go searching for resources so I can build the world of my characters. More than half of my stories have been partly formed in bookshops or libraries.” 

Petyr smiled.  

“As it so happens,” he replied, glancing at the clock on the wall, “I have to be back at the University this afternoon for a lecture. And one of the country's biggest libraries happens to be right on campus. Mostly resources for research and scholarship, of course. But I daresay that there’s a sizeable fiction section you can browse through.”  

The way her eyes lit up was plenty reward enough. And suddenly, Petyr knew how the rest of his day was going to pan out.  

* * *

The School of Computing really was a hop-skip away from the Central Library. In the last two and a half hours, Sansa had found herself lost in a different kind of heaven. She had found the fiction section eventually — although it had turned out more a section about fiction than anything else. Still, she had mined it for ideas, for techniques. She found out more about the art of writing in that short span of time than she ever thought to look for in all of her years winging it before.

Computing was not quite what she had expected when she looked at Petyr. Margaery had told her from the start not to ask too many questions about what Petyr did for his day job. But here he was, revealing at least a little of himself to her voluntarily. Sansa wandered around the building until someone noticed how lost she looked. 

_Can I help you?_

_Yes. I’m looking for… um… Petyr Baelish?_

The look on the younger man’s face changed. _You mean Prof Baelish._

_Yes of course,_ Sansa replied hastily, acutely aware somehow she had stumbled into another _faux pas_. _I didn’t know if he’s a Doctor or not, or…_

The younger man was no longer interested in what she had to say. _Second right, take the stairs, turn to the left, Lecture Theatre Three. That’s if... you want the front row._ There seemed to be a tinge of a sneer. 

_Oh no,_ Sansa shook her head hastily. _I don’t want to interrupt. Not while he’s teaching._

But he shook his head. _Just walk in,_ replied her nonplussed guide, now sauntering off. _If you don’t mind the back rows,  just head to that corridor and enter LT Three from the back of the room._

And so now she faced the door, barely making out Petyr's voice from the other side of the wood. She leaned down on the handle slowly, easing the heavy door open as quietly as possible. 

Petyr noticed her as soon as she slipped into the room, but he didn’t lose a beat as he deftly proved the rest of the theorem by hand, finishing off with a flourish. A request for volunteers straight after, to critique what he had just done. But none spoke up until he resorted to randomly picking a name in the class roll.  

“Possible application?” Petyr finally asked the room, and waited patiently. A hand or two went up and the answers demonstrated some reading ahead at least. _Good. But not good enough. They needed to think bigger, better. This was a rapidly evolving field._

“Your textbooks are already outdated at the time of print,” he drawled, not for the first time in the room. “I wasn’t kidding when I said at the very beginning that I didn't need you to buy it. I won’t be referring to it. I won’t be _testing_ your knowledge on it. I appreciate those of you reading ahead,” he nodded to the few more confident once, acknowledging their efforts. "But if you want to ace this class, if you want to even get within sniffing distance of a career in security… you need to get your hands on current research. Next week—" and he then proceeded to list his expectations while a clatter of keyboard-typing ensued. 

Sansa watched in rapt fascination. The lecture theatre was more packed than she had anticipated. _Core subject, perhaps?_ Sansa wondered idly. Judging from the complex squiggles — _calculations_ — on the white smartboard in the front of the room, Petyr was some sort of mathematician. A freakishly fast-thinking one too, with penmanship that made Sansa think of her own sorrowfully. She looked around, surprised by the relatively even number of young men and women in the room. 

She didn’t think he saw her at all until he looked up suddenly and stared right at her. A corner of his mouth lifted and then suddenly, a few heads were turning around, mostly female. They stared at her own smiling face with a mix of curiosity and something else less friendly. Two of them even scowled. Sansa’s smile drooped before she carefully tucked it away, her face now a picture of primness.  

When the lecture room was formally dismissed, Sansa made her way slowly down the lecture theatre while a bevy of mostly young female students queued up to talk to Petyr. _Professor Baelish_ , Sansa smiled to herself and recalled how he had opened the door this morning still sleepy, shirtless and scowling. She would never have pictured Petyr as a teaching Academic, but after watching him this last fifteen minutes, Sansa was now fully persuaded. 

“Walk with me?” he asked her in a low voice as he made his excuses to the bevy, citing the next crowd of students preparing to enter the room after them. Petyr stuffed his papers in a leather satchel and slung it easily across his shoulder before falling in step with Sansa as they exited the room from the side door. 

“I enjoyed that,” she whispered.  

“Oh?” he asked, pleasantly surprised. 

“Didn’t understand a thing, but it looked very impressive.” She stared at him very solemnly then before they both burst into a quiet chuckle. “What were you just teaching anyway?” 

“Quantum cryptography.” And before Sansa could even figure out what that could be, Petyr spied another group of young women ahead of them and quietly groaned. 

“Not them again,” he muttered. 

“Your students?” asked Sansa innocently. 

“Not my students.” A pause. “Even the ones before were not my students.” 

Sansa’s eyes fell so Petyr wouldn’t see the knowing glint that lit up her blue eyes then. “I _did_ think that was an unusually packed lecture room.” She looked up again and smiled at him, almost teasing. “They didn’t like me very much.” 

“No they didn’t,” he grinned, taking in the subtle rise and fall of her chest as she matched his stride, her lace-up white leather sandals all too casual and carefree to mark her as a native of the computer science crowd. The group of younger women had spotted both of them now and Petyr was groaning quietly again. 

“Do you want my help?” asked Sansa suddenly. 

“Your help?” 

And he swallowed hard as Sansa leaned against his left arm and took his hand in her own. “Is that alright?” she whispered conspiringly. She was genuinely asking here, eyes wide and searching.  

And all Professor Baelish could do was nod dumbly. 

And so they walked like this, hand in hand, each playing a part beautifully. Petyr made the most of it by staring into her eyes as if all the world had melted away, save for the junoesque woman beside him with flaming red hair the colour of summer. 

He turned at the last moment to the group of girls as the pair of them passed them by, as if suddenly aware they were there at all. “Hello,” he nodded civilly, smiling broadly. And Sansa, bless her, gave them all a cheery wave. Her fingers still laced loosely in his, her diamond ring winking naughtily in the sun for all to see. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! And sorry it's taken a little while, but I've been looking forward to writing Sabbatical so much and I hope that you enjoyed this chapter as much as I've delighted in putting this together. And yeah, it's Petyr being gooey despite himself, Marge walking into the lion's den, and Sansa being clueless and yet clued up. 
> 
> Fluffy, improbable, maybe a little OOC, and TOTAL wish fulfilment, of course. But am I sorry for it? Not one little bit. xx
> 
> (Also, chapter 3 and NO SMUT yet. What the hell!)


	4. Salute the sun

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162326344@N04/41131922372/in/dateposted-public/)

Petyr thought he heard [Raleigh Ritchie](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jacob_Anderson) before he heard _Tai Jie._

_“_ Aiyoh! _What is that awful noise! So loud! Too early! The neighbours will complain!”_ And then muttering more darkly, “… _these_  [gweilo](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gweilo) _and their devil music…”_

Petyr huffed in amusement at the last before pricking his ears. Yes. Definitely Raleigh Ritchie. Some slow, synthesised, soulful rap thing. Out in the 'burbs. In the most expensive district in Singapore. At… oooh, Petyr squinted… _seven in the morning._

He rolled out of bed and his scar stretched tight across his bare chest as he reached toward the ceiling and twisted his back before shuffling, half awake, towards the nearest window. 

And then he saw her. 

Petyr knew only the basics of yoga. He had read up about it and then tried it once —the _Bikram_ kind in Thailand, sweating it out for two hours in a veritable sauna as he twisted himself into knots and sank into a squat. It was alright, he supposed; didn’t take the Eagle’s Pose for him to learn that he wasn’t the most balanced individual.  

He watched as Sansa saluted the sun. As now did a certain member of his treacherous body. Salute the sun.  

Petyr sank against the window frame, a man mesmerised. She was strong — beneath all of that copper hair and reluctantly sun-kissed skin and bluer-than-blue eyes lay surprising power. Muscle. Grace. Petyr watched as her body adapted beautifully to every minute, purposeful shift in her centre of gravity. She never lost a beat. Raleigh Ritchie’s moody notes soon melded into Lukas Graham’s tenor before bleeding into TĀLĀ’s angst. Sansa moved through them all, breathing motion and magic into the medley. He remembered how hard it could be; he remembered the way his own leg trembled under his weight while his foot shifted beneath him, struggling for control. Struggling to find his centre before he had to move again and start all over.  

Sansa made it look so damn easy.  

He watched as she slowly leaned down until her hands were flat on the ground in front of her, arms straight, shoulder-width apart. Her body was in a perfect triangle now, her beautiful, sculpted ass pointed to the sky and Petyr bit his lip, a man tormented. 

Her right leg was stretched straight behind her, and he watched as she brought her left knee in until it rested on her left upper arm. 

Sansa leaned forward on her arms then, her left leg fully off the ground, knee pressing deep into her tricep for balance. When she finally lifted her right leg up high so her body formed a perfect forty-five-degree arrow aimed at the sun, he sank slowly to his knees, jaw slack.   

And that was when Petyr Baelish knew he was in serious trouble. 

* * *

Petyr heard the car pull away from the front gates and hit the switch before Margaery found the button to the doorbell.

Sansa was aghast. 

“What happened to your hair!” And all Margaery could do was shake her head slightly, her eyes not quite meeting either Sansa’s or Petyr’s. But Sansa was still appalled. “You look like you got mauled by a lion!” And Margaery winced visibly.  

Sansa watched as Margaery slipped out of her heels and then slowly, gingerly bent down to pick them up before changing her mind and straightening slowly. 

“Were you wearing this yesterday?” Sansa gestured to her dress, truly puzzled now. Petyr stroked his goatee to smooth the grin on his face. 

“It’s new,” mumbled Margaery, and shot Petyr a sidelong glare.  

“Are you alright?” Sansa was starting to fuss. “You’re walking funny!” 

Petyr bit his knuckle before trusting himself to speak and even then, there was no hiding the laughter in his voice. 

“Late night? Early morning?” 

Another glare. Margaery raised her chin haughtily before half-limping, half-sauntering to the staircase leading to their rooms. 

Sansa’s eyes about fell out of her head when Petyr called out lazily after their friend, “That’s a doozy of a sex sprain, Tyrell.” 

Margaery did not deign to answer as she ascended the stair, except to flick him the bird behind her back. Petyr guffawed then. 

* * *

It was an hour and a half before Margaery showed her face downstairs again. Sansa tried not to show how much she was dying of curiosity. She continued to follow Petyr’s example, nose conspicuously buried in a paperback she had picked up in his library while he lounged in his high-back wicker chair, marking up an article he was reading, black-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. 

She liked him in glasses, she decided. They added an intellectual air that suited him. Harry had perfect eyesight and had never needed glasses. But then he had never been much of a scholar. He didn’t even have a real degree. 

Margaery dropped dramatically into the chair facing Petyr before sighing resignedly. “Alright. Fire away.”  

Sansa sat up and leaned in, a delighted smile on her face. 

“You met someone.” 

“Yes.” 

“Where!” 

“The Raffles Hotel.” Margaery paused, looking sheepish. “I’m sorry I didn’t wait for you, darling. We can go back together and do a Singapore Sling. I promise I didn’t drink one, in the end.” 

“Then what were you doing?” Sansa’s tone was sly now, a naughty smile playing on her lips. Petyr continued reading, the sound of paper rustling as he turned the page around the staple. 

“ _Whom_ were you doing,” he corrected mildly. 

Sansa watched in fascination as Margaery’s face turned bright red.  

“Margee!” 

“Please don’t ask me!” she groaned. “He’s a private man, and anyway I doubt it’s going to be a recurring thing. We had drinks. We had a good time. And yes, I stayed over.” 

“Sex sprain,” Petyr reminded, drawing a red pen across a paragraph. 

But Margaery looked actually anxious now. “Especially _you_ , Baelish. Please.” And she waited until he looked up and at her. “Don’t go rooting around, will you? Please? _Promise_ me you’ll behave and not go Sherlock on me? I know enough about him. I don’t need to know everything. It was just fun, and it’s probably the one time. That’s all.” 

Petyr paused for a moment as if to consider and Margaery held her breath, suddenly afraid. But he broke into a winsome smile after a second or three. 

“Of course, silly girl. None of my business who you shag. Unless he can give me a new job…” And he winked. Margaery threw a cushion at him. 

“You asshole.” But she was grinning now, relieved. “Thank you.” 

 He shrugged and went back to his paper. Margaery changed the subject quickly. 

“What about you two?” she asked now. “What did you get up to in my absence?” 

“Well, lots, in the end!” Sansa beamed, placing the book facedown on her lap before stretching her long legs across the rattan settee. “Went to Petyr’s University in the afternoon to poke around in the library there. Watched him lecture for a bit. Took a drive to my first hawker centre and had the tastiest meal!” 

“What’s a hawker centre?” But Margaery was already wrinkling her nose. 

“It’s literally a food centre packed with food stalls, and every vendor specialises in a few dishes. Just like a food court, except it’s open air, there’s no air-conditioning, it’s steamy as anything, but the atmosphere is great. And the food!” And Sansa rolled her eyes to the back of her head. “I don’t know what I ate, but Petyr can tell you.” 

“I might have gone overboard,” he admitted gruffly without looking up. “But at least she got to taste a bit of everything. Local fare. Some of my favourites.” 

“I’m glad you got to look around on your own at least,” Margaery smiled at Sansa, and shoved Petyr’s leg with her foot. “Thanks for playing tour guide.” 

“OH. And after that he took me to the Art Science museum. And then, we had an ice cream sandwich from a roadside vendor. And _then_ we ended up walking around a quayside just talking. Had a drink in some tiny pub and talked some more. Drinks are extortionate here!” 

“Hmm!” Margaery replied brightly, but now she was looking at Petyr who was still assiduously making his notes on the margins. She cocked her head thoughtfully. “Very nice of you, Baelish.” 

He just shrugged. “You weren’t around,” he drawled. “And my class was over.” A pause. “Sansa helped me out of a tight spot." 

Margaery was just about to ask when the doorbell rang and Petyr finally looked up then, a small crease in his brows.  

“What now…” but _Tai Jie_ had beaten him to the punch. A pause as the front gate opened, before all three of them heard a string of exclamations neither woman could understand.  

They stood up without a word and moved to the front of the house. 

And there stood box after box after box of roses. Margaery felt the blood rise up her neck and her head throb. 

“There’s a card!” squealed Sansa and Margaery made a lunge for it as _Tai Jie_ moaned the fact that there weren’t enough vases, but oh wait… each of the boxes seemed to be self-sufficient. Forgivable then.  

Margaery watched in bemusement as Sansa slid the flap of the envelope open before glancing at the message, poised to read out loud. Her expression changed immediately however, and she hastily handed the card back to Margaery. 

“I shouldn’t have,” Sansa actually blushed. “Sorry, Margee."  

As Margaery grabbed the card and ran up the stairs as fast as her dignity would let her, Sansa gazed at Petyr’s curious face. 

“I can’t,” she repeated, shaking her head, the blush still heating her ears. But she was _terribly_ pleased for her friend and her roomful of pink, white and yellow roses.  

* * *

Petyr took the opportunity then to slip out of the house and leave the two friends to catch up privately. He had murmured something about research — which wasn’t a lie. But he had actually been on his way to prove a hunch.

The credit card statements had given Sansa plenty of clues, but it took a local, perhaps, to draw enough of the clues together to call the full picture. Petyr was fairly certain now that Harrold Hardyng was using Singapore as a main base from which to island-hop or make short trips to other holiday destinations. It made sense, really; location-wise, it was central to everything and had the most variety of flights. And since Harry would want for nothing money-wise, it wasn’t like the accommodation cost was going to kill him.  

This was good. This meant that Harrold was more likely than not in Singapore.  

Petyr had skimmed through the account names last night and gradually cobbled a small list of places that were his best bet for finding that sonofabitch. It had the trifecta — probability, predictability, and people to interrogate.  

If there’s one thing Australians love, after all, it was a good watering hole. Even if the alcohol levy here made you want to shit bricks and go teetotal

* * *

Margaery closed the door behind her, thought about it for a second, and then slipped the privacy lock across. She trusted Sansa, of course. Even Petyr. Cerebrally, she knew they would probably knock first before entering. Neither of them was so bold or so rude to barge in when a door was closed. But Margaery wanted the extra assurance of privacy anyway.

She sank into the bed before slowly removing the card from the small, white envelope. True enough, the sentiment within was written in what could only be Tywin’s own hand — the pen strokes strong, bold, angular. Taking up all of the card, all of the available room. Almost overpowering.  

Heat crept up her neck and down low as she dropped the card and sank back into the pillows, a goofy grin on her lips. 

_I ache in places I’ve never ached before._

“Only Tywin” hardly smiled. The closest thing to it that Margaery had caught was a ghost of something that only managed to look like a grimace. But he was a man of action. And a foyer full of roses just because she said she seriously liked the damn flower was something of a coded apology. Yet another in a hundred little acts that had followed after their initial awkward altercation. 

She didn’t know if she would ever get over how old the man actually is. She could guess, she supposed. Late fifties? Maybe very early sixties? The thought alone made her cringe still. She’ll never ask, she decided. Bad enough that he’d look like her grandfather in public. Or at the very least, a much older uncle.  

She slapped her face lightly. There would be no walking around together in public. There would be no second time. Okay, scratch that. They had gone past seconds. And thirds. And… 

_He’s a geriatric, Marge!_

And yet, he had been… _most_ energetic. The tongue, Margaery had learnt, is an ageless muscle. 

She squirmed as another memory came unbidden, squeezing her eyes and her legs shut. Oh god. The state of the room the third time… She had lied to Sansa back then. There was no way in hell she could show her face at the Raffles Hotel anymore. Or meet the neighbours. 

The sounds that he managed to pull from her. Over and over… 

Margaery rolled over, buried her face in the pillow, and laughed and screamed.

Her phone went off suddenly, the dull ping drawing her back up to sitting, suddenly alert. A MESSAGE. She pounced on her phone, flicked the screen on, hoping against hope… 

_I want to see you again._

 And just like that, Margaery went back on her word.  

* * *

Sansa waited for the air-conditioning to kick in, slowly closing the windows around her airy room but leaving the shutters open. She still wasn't completely used to the blanket-thick humidity, although she did privately aim to learn to sleep overnight with the windows open and nothing but the fans on. Natural airflow was _so_ much better than breathing in all that stale recycled air, after all. 

She settled back into bed, laptop on her lap. _Time to work._ But even through the thin glass panes, she could hear actual birds in dialogue outside her window. A distant high-pitched whistle throbbed before building into a long, sweet strain that cut through the trees beyond their compound. Petyr had explained earlier today that it was a cicada singing.  

Sansa had no idea that those tiny critters could be this loud.  

Petyr. She had really enjoyed spending the day with him yesterday, seeing the city through his eyes. _Always travel with a local,_ they said. And it’s true; Sansa thought she glimpsed a side of the city that she’d never have seen if she had been here on her own or just with Margaery. And he had been a witty tour guide, once he finally thawed. His humour was very dry, not at all like Harry’s slapstick. Sansa grinned as she recalled a few of his droll observations, always murmured under his breath, only for her benefit.    

Hot and cold. Petyr was a private man, Sansa guessed. He could be so distant and impenetrable, and then suddenly warm and friendly. Helpful. As the night progressed, she grew to enjoy his easy company and she had found herself opening up about her life and her marriage after a few drinks. He had such good listening ears and nice, cool hands. 

_I wonder why he’s still single,_ thought Sansa idly before an answer presented itself almost immediately.  

_Can’t imagine many people smart enough to stimulate his massive intellect. Are there many women in the cybersecurity field,_ Sansa wondered. _Is he even in the cybersecurity field?_ He never said.   

Sansa’s mobile suddenly came to life, and she swiped the call on without thinking. 

“Sansa Stark,” she sang into the receiver and Olenna Tyrell purred back on the phone.  

“Sansa, darling!” Just like her granddaughter, except her voice was older of course. And grainier, after a lifetime of Sobranie Black Russians. “I know we only spoke yesterday. But I have some lovely news: I’ve generated some interest in your summer read already. If you give me a working title and a summary, I can whip together a draft book cover, if only to tempt the usual suspects! They’re DYING for a summer beach read from you. Apparently, there are some real duds in progress at the moment, and the distributors are _screaming_ for better content.”   

Sansa’s head spun. “S… so soon?” she faltered, the colour draining from her face.   

“Surely you’ve started on something already,” Olenna returned breezily, but Sansa caught the warning in the older woman’s voice. “Just a working title, darling. Not even the real thing. A sentence or two! It’ll be nothing for you! I’ll even save you the work of putting together a short two-para summary. Just tell me what the book’s about.” 

“Aaahhh…” 

“Just a little, Sansa. I’m not asking for a full synopsis here.” 

The air was thick with expectation. Sansa felt ill. 

She took a deep breath and steadied herself.  

“It’s set on a tropical island…” she began slowly, and Olenna purred her approval immediately.  

“Excellent. Using where you are, what you have. Good girl. I could _kiss_ Margaery, I swear.” 

“Um… deserted tropical island. There’s a… a shipwreck. Our heroine is marooned on the island in the middle of nowhere, because — and we find this out much later — the only person on the entire ship the captain made sure to save was she.” 

Sansa pulled herself up straighter in her bed, warming up to the idea now. 

“The Captain… has… many skills. Uh… he has a past as well — he used to be a pirate." 

“A pirate!” And the older woman cackled. “It’s a well-loved trope, but we haven’t had that in recent years. It can be polished up new again, I’m sure. Go on, then.” 

“So they have to survive, right? It’s like Robinson Crusoe and his Girl Friday, except there’s no cannibalism and they’re hopelessly attracted to each other.” 

“Of course,” Olenna grinned into the phone. "Conflict?” 

 “Ah.” And Sansa was suddenly hitting her stride here. “She’s promised to a Duke. In fact, the ship was on its way back to England to present her to her rich, boorish fiancé. Before, of course, the storm hit. So they have to decide now: do they give in to their passions on this deserted island with no real prospects of seeing anyone ever again? Or does she stay true to her intended?” 

“What is modesty and propriety when the rules have changed?” Olenna agreed. “Good… good… any more?” 

“Yes. They get chased by pirates!” 

“Oh?” 

“The island they’re on is actually home to a pirate’s cove. It’s one of their 'safe houses', and also where they store treasure. The pirates return one day, and the hero, of course, knows who they are from his past life. Suddenly, their lives are in danger and they have to leave. They have to board the ship, steal it, and hustle.” 

“Excellent!” 

“All this happens the day after they finally succumb to their passions for the second night — first night was a whoopsy — and fall completely in love, of course. They make it out alive, lose the Duke who wasn’t very interested anyway, and live happily ever after.” 

“Brilliant!” And Sansa could hear the smile in Olenna’s voice. “Regency?” 

“Probably. Maybe with a twist. Modern English. But with the beautiful, fussy dresses. And tearaway bodices, of course.” 

“Very Julia Quinn. Alright then. Just might work. So what’s he look like?” 

“Well.” And Sansa shifted in her bed to get comfortable. “He’s impossibly dreamy… sandy hair… deep blue eyes, and the cutest dimples—“ 

“I swear to god, Sansa. If I meet one more of your romantic heroes that looks just like your husband, I think I might just give up the gig. He _can’t_ be blonde with dimples — he’s a dangerous pirate! Try something else.” 

_Something else?_ Sansa picked at her sheets in consternation. Olenna waited, the dead air between them heavy and expectant again. 

“Okay….” Sansa started slowly. “So he’s got dark hair…” 

“Mmm hmmm…” 

“And um… one of those moustache-and-goatee combos…” 

“Good, good…” 

“And um… this long, silvery scar from the top of his collarbone down past his navel,” she added hurriedly, her voice dipping suddenly as if someone in the house could hear her every confession. _Thank goodness Petyr was already out of the house,_ thought Sansa feverishly. 

“Ooh! Sexy scar! Sword fight?” 

“Sword fight,” affirmed Sansa. “And then the rest of it, you know. Tall, brawn, rippling muscles everywhere, tight pants molded to his bottom…” And warm grey-green eyes that listen. But Sansa didn’t add that.  

“Much better,” Olenna crooned. “Name?” 

“Haven’t thought too hard about that yet.” _It can’t be Petyr._

“Well, his pirate calling card could be Captain Littlefinger,” replied Olenna smoothly, “Pirates. They have ironic wit. Also, can’t have your buccaneer wave around a small willy, after all.” 

* * *

The first two bars had yielded nothing, but Petyr had not expected much success on his first few goes anyway. The data was a month old, after all. And Harrold could be gallivanting off-Singapore right now, for all he knew.  

So when Petyr turned up at the beer bar in Emerald Hill, he almost dropped his cigarette when the man in question himself was sitting pretty on a bar stool, sipping a tall ice cold. 

_It's him alright,_ thought Petyr darkly as he settled himself at a table within easy viewing distance, in Harrold’s blind spot. He was still near enough to hear him shooting the breeze with the bartender. But Petyr took in the dirty blonde hair, the entitled turn of his aquiline nose, and the definite outline of a growing paunch underneath his Ferragamo polo. Yes, he was the sort of handsome that turned heads, Petyr granted him. And he was tall — much taller than Petyr. Perhaps he had been a bit of a jock once. An athlete in his younger days. 

But not anymore.  

Harrold was a young man who had quietly started to let himself go. The telltale signs all there of a man who had learnt to take many precious things for granted. 

Petyr clenched his jaw and silently downed the last of his beer before tapping his glass for another. 

Harrold’s mobile went off then, and Petyr trained his eyes on Harrold’s lips as he took the call. 

“Hi,” he answered without preamble, his voice suddenly changing. Husky. 

A pause. And then, “Where are you, beautiful?” Another pause as he slipped off the stool, changing hands with the phone as he fished around his pocket for loose change. “Sure, baby. I’ll come get you.” He flicked his wrist and stared at the bright gold Rolex there, the one that always looked like a cheap Thai knock-off. 

“If I catch a cab, I can be in there in ten,” he assured his baby. “See you soon. Can’t wait.” 

Dirty, dirty Harry.  

Petyr left a tip on the table and slid out of his chair noiselessly. _This was going to be interesting._   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was the belated birthday present to apocketfulofwry who, when asked what she wanted, only kept saying "Sabbatical" on repeat. So there you go. One after the other. :-) Happy Birthday, chickie. You've really made this writing adventure an extra fun one. xx
> 
> In the course of thinking about all the plinky-plonky music Sansa could possibly scream into the peace and calm of an exclusive suburb in Singapore, I ended up [putting together a playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/v1hz4mmpb235qez7swkhr24l3/playlist/1lSMjpBmLymyfrK9tTuxIA). Mind you, this isn't necessarily reflective of MY music taste, but this is Sabbatical Sansa's anyway. Picture her doing a combo of tai chi, pilates, yoga, and whatever else grabs your fancy. Tight yoga pants not optional.
> 
> Also, in case you're curious how to execute a Flying Crow move, [here's a video](https://youtu.be/ctems4Kbwj4).
> 
> Last but not least, the image of the half nekkid pirate about to make sweet love to the redhead in the top left of the montage is from an actual book. [_Lady Pirate_ by Lynsay Sands](https://www.amazon.com/Lady-Pirate-Lynsay-Sands/dp/0062019732). Never read it myself, but credit where credit's due. ;-)


	5. To have it both ways

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162326344@N04/41585892152/in/dateposted-public/)

The thing about taxi drivers here — if one were to have the luxury of time to pick and choose, one could fairly predict the kind of ride one would pay for just by the make of car and the kind of driver. Uber, Hybrid, woman, mid-forties? Probably keeping the car for the family most days and then driving odd hours to pay the rent. Pleasant drive, few dramas. Well-Spoken Middle-Aged Man in a long-sleeved white shirt? Second career after getting unceremoniously retrenched. Slightly frustrated on the road perhaps, but able to hold a decent conversation. 

But if one wanted experience. If one needed a driver who would do what it took to get one there in twice the speed and half the time while talking one's ear off about the government… If one had the intestinal fortitude to stomach the driver who would cross four lanes on a superhighway with only a foot to spare between one’s taxi and the next truck… One needed to engage the services of the Old Taxi Uncle in the yellow-top Nissan Cedric. 

Petyr had managed to flag down just the driver he needed: a thin, grey, withered man who spoke nominal English but who sprang instantly to life once he understood his mission. Which was to follow Harrold’s white Mercedes Benz taxi from a safe distance. 

As they ducked and wove across town, Petyr learnt the horse racing results for that afternoon, the dastardly impact of Uber on his business, and why the new generation of so-called politicians were stupid monkeys. He also brushed up his knowledge of defensive driving and was sure to check — many times — that his own seatbelt had been, indeed, fastened properly. 

_Why are you following this car? Is it your woman? Is she cheating on you?_

_No, Old Uncle._ Petyr grinned. _I’m doing this for a friend. We’re following a man, not a woman._

_For a friend?_ _And the taxi in front has a man?_ The Old Taxi Uncle raised his eyebrows at Petyr from the rearview mirror. _Your friend a woman?_

_Yes…_

_Must be a very pretty woman._

Petyr looked out the side as they pulled into the avenue leading up to The Stamford Club.  

_The prettiest,_ he admitted to the old man, who wheezed like he just heard the best joke.  

_Oh to be young again._

The Stamford Club was invitation-only. One didn’t only have to be a member to cross that hallowed hall — one had to be _chosen_ for the privilege to do so.  

One does not simply walk into The Stamford. Much less arrive in a beat-up Nissan Cedric. 

The closest that the Old Taxi Uncle could manage to park without drawing undue attention to themselves was across the great expanse of manicured lawn, on the far-right of the sweeping horseshoe driveway. Even then, the both of them had to be quick. A guard on the grounds was already wrinkling his nose and about to walk over to give them a squiz. 

Harrold’s taxi was stuck behind a Maserati that was on its way to getting parked by a valet. Petyr cursed that all he had on his person right now was his mobile phone — which was powerful, though not powerful enough from this distance. Still, he managed to hone in on Harrold just as the feckless shit was bounding up the short staircase to a willowy woman with long black hair. 

Fifteen shots in rapid succession as Harrold pulled the woman close and planted a decidedly unfriendly kiss close to her ear. The woman looked hardly impressed, turning on her heel to stalk back in while Harrold followed through the double doors like a whipped puppy. 

The Old Taxi Uncle pulled away from the curb just as the guard started down the driveway towards them with much pompous indignation. Petyr texted Margaery then, attaching one of the fifteen images to his message. 

_ Stay home and hold off your date. I think you need to be here for this.  _

* * *

“Oh darling, I’m so sorry…” And Margaery took her friend’s hand into hers, rubbing it slowly. The rains had not abated since the mid-afternoon. It was pelting down now, a dull roar in the background as the rain persisted on the tiled roof of the deep verandah. 

_Fitting,_ thought Petyr, considering the mood they were all in.  

He was ensconced in his usual Victorian wicker chair, his posture deceptively relaxed except he was pinching his lower lip thoughtfully. His left hand would fist and relax whenever a particular thought flitted across his face.  

What he would give to punch that shithead’s face in right now. 

Sansa couldn’t answer. Her eyes were unusually wide, the blue paler than he’d ever seen. Or perhaps that all had to do with her complexion now. She had gone so white and so quiet when, at last, he had reluctantly produced that horrible reel of photos. It had twisted his gut to do so, but he sensed that she’d rather get the worst over and done with. Have all the proof laid out dispassionately in the one hit. That would have been how he’d have preferred it himself anyway. 

She still looked so lovely. Utterly gutted, but lovely. 

“How long… do you think…” But neither Margaery nor Petyr had the answer. Long enough, was both of their guesses.  

“But he told me…” And at that, Sansa finally took a deep shaky breath in before letting it out in a tremulous sigh. “He told me that this wasn’t about another woman!” She turned to look at her oldest friend now. “He lied!” 

“We don’t know that,” replied Margaery hastily, although Petyr had to close his eyes right then to hide the eyeroll. “This could all be something that’s… just sprung up as early as this month!” 

_And not premeditated from the first,_ was the unsaid alternative hanging in the air like a giant unwanted fart.  

That poor woman. That poor exquisite, gullible, deceived woman. 

“I should go… Let you talk to Marge in private,” Petyr murmured now, uncrossing his leg to stand. But Sansa stopped him then, lifting her beautiful blue eyes to look at him properly since Margaery first broke the truth to her. 

“Oh no… please don’t feel like you need to leave. Un… unless, of course, you need to go. But otherwise, please stay? I feel better with you around. And thank you,” she added now. “For all that effort. I can’t imagine the time and energy it took to do all that you did. And you’re so busy too!” 

Petyr’s jaw went slack. She was thanking him, even while the pillars holding up her world were falling.  

_Un-fucking-believable._

“You know…” Margaery began before literally biting her tongue. 

“Yes Margee?” 

“It’s nothing. It’s not the right time. Don’t worry about it.” 

“It’s alright...” And Sansa drew her back up straighter as if bracing herself for another blow. “Just tell me. It can’t get too much worse anyway,” she added weakly with a watery smile. 

Again, Petyr pulled his hand down the length of his face before folding his arms and tucking his hands firmly into his sides. Every fibre of his being just wanted to pull her to him and hold her tight while telling her to fuck ‘im. _Fuck Harrold. And then maybe let’s have dinner sometime._

_God, listen to yourself, you fucking sap..._

“Sweetie… you know what this also means for you, right?” Margaery peered into her friend’s eyes, watching for the comprehension to set in after her next few words. “If Harrold really is on a break from your marriage — in _all_ senses of the word — that means _you_ are on a break too. A marriage sabbatical works both ways, honey.” 

Silence. Petyr stilled. He had no idea right now what he hoped she would say to that. The idea of taking a break from her own marriage. Suspending the rules of fidelity just as her fucktard husband had done for, probably, months. Maybe longer. 

“Do you understand what I’m—“ 

“I can’t do this one right now, Margee. You were right, of course.” Sansa smiled brilliantly again, but her voice had been unusually high, almost as if she were running out of air. 

“I um…” She stood up now and gestured vaguely at the stair leading up to her room. “I uh… I think I’ll lie down for a while, if that’s alright with you two? 

“Oh honey, of course!” “All the time you need, Sansa.” 

She nodded at them, edging towards that staircase, her smile artificial and glued crooked to her face — almost comical if it wasn’t so tragic. “I’ll uh…” And as soon as she reached the stair, she practically fled to her room.  

Margaery and Petyr waited until they heard her door click close.  

“That was gut-wrenching.” Margaery exhaled slowly, slumping back into the settee. “Like booting a baby seal...” Silence between the two friends as the rain continued to pound the concrete beyond the verandah.  

“Think this is it? She’ll finally dump that two-timing fuck?”  

He tried not to sound so hopeful. 

Margaery shrugged but she looked unhappy. “Who knows. I hope so. But then I’d always thought she could have done a whole lot better.” Margaery rolled her eyes then. “The girl is just too kind for her own good. Literally! She forgives too easily. So no. I don’t think she’ll dump that louse today.” 

Petyr ignored how her words seemed to squeeze his chest like a vise. 

“But don’t worry,” Margaery added, her lip curling suddenly at the corner. “I think I have a plan.” 

* * *

This was not at all how Margaery Tyrell had expected to spend her Wednesday. But a girl could easily get used to this.

She hadn’t known what to expect when Tywin told her to bring along her passport. And like a giddy dumb blonde she had dutifully showed up, waiting for him around the corner of Petyr’s street at stupid o’clock in the morning. His Bentley — the black one — had pulled alongside her quietly like a panther stalking its prey at quarter to five sharp.  

The moment she saw him sitting there unsmiling, eyes narrowed and knowing, shirt undone at the collar, well… _there_ went another favourite Cadolle black lace, soaked and ruined.  

_Bloody hell._

Anything could have happened, really. He could have bundled her off to flesh traders. Sold her to some offshore sweatshop where they sewed cheap crappy Zara blouses and footballs with their teeth. On hindsight — and hindsight is always a marvellous thing, a clever girl like Margaery has to remember — she probably shouldn’t have stepped into his car like that. 

Or gone back to his hotel room last week. Thrice. 

And bonked his beautiful old brains out without even knowing his real name. And he, hers. 

But oh well, Margaery mused, nursing her glass of White Russian that had turned out to be shockingly yummy. Wasn’t to her taste, she thought. Not my typical drink, she was sure. But now she couldn’t imagine having any other cocktail.  

Much like the man before her. 

The _Singa Emas_ was his, of course — a gorgeous forty seven-metre double mast yacht specially designed and commissioned by Tywin as a reminisce of eighteenth-century North Atlantic schooners, with a touch of Indonesian somethin'-somethin'. All seven cabins were spacious and exquisite of course, and a peek into the master suite had turned her hips gooey once more.  

Margaery had initially made the plebeian mistake of wondering aloud where Tywin had chartered the luxury yacht from and he’d looked at her like she were mad.  

“Charter?” he had clarified, his voice deepening in offence. “I do not _charter_. I possess."  

She’d thought she was rich. This was a whole other level of _riche_. 

The waters here were more green than blue but they were far away enough now so that Margaery could soak in her surroundings as the yacht idled for a while. The long, languid coastline of Maumere backed into green layered hills and was fringed with tiny islands that now dotted her view of the horizon. The Alor Archipelago, which was where they were headed eventually, had great dive spots apparently. 

Speaking of diving... 

Tywin sauntered back up to the deck now, his eyes flicking over her choice of swimwear appreciatively. She had brought all seven along, and this was one of her skimpiest. A reward, she figured, for such decadent, warm hospitality. Plus it matched the name of the yacht, being gold an’ all. 

He sauntered past her and she took in his imposing frame, the easy, almost predatory gait as he made his way to the side of the yacht. For an old man, Tywin was in possession of a pretty amazing arse. Margaery was about to find out why. 

In a single motion, Tywin peeled off his top as he casually climbed up and over the edge before plunging neatly into the waters below. The sea was calm and as she ran to the side to look, she spotted him. Arms and legs long and powerful, cutting a swathe through the greeny-blue surface as if it were a liquid breeze.  

_Fuck me,_ breathed Margaery, if she didn’t just fall more in lust with this old man and the sea.   

* * *

“My wardrobe’s shrinking because of you,” Margaery complained.

Tywin fingered what remained of the gold scrap of fabric that had once graced the left breast of the young, delectable woman now lying across his chest, her unruly mane tickling his neck.  

“It was in the way,” he remarked mildly, running his fingers through her hair slowly.  

“It was a £400 string bikini!” 

“It was in the way.” 

She gave up arguing. There wasn’t a limb that didn’t feel rubbery, or a muscle in her body that didn’t feel sore. She had clenched every one of them. They probably heard her all the way to the Alor Archipelago.  

_Oh god, the crew. All thirteen of them…._

She groaned and Tywin raised an eyebrow in consternation as she turned to face him then. 

“This is starting to get awkward.” 

There was a tense pause. “Explain.” 

“Raffles was one thing, but at least I could tell myself that no one knew for sure that it was both of us creating that racket. _Here,_ however…” and she rolled her eyes towards the door. “Where do they sleep anyway?” 

“To whom are you referring?” 

“The crew.” 

And Tywin actually looked bemused. “Sometimes I really don’t understand you.” 

“The staff! The crew! They must have heard me at least…” 

And at that, Tywin leaned his head back down on the pillow, and looked almost relieved. “A lion doesn’t concern himself with the opinions of the sheep." 

“Well,I’m no lion. _I’m_ feeling a little embarrassed, alright?” 

Again, on hindsight, Margaery really should’ve known better. Her admission was as good as a young silly gazelle prancing in front of a big ol’ cat. Tywin suddenly pounced from nowhere, flipping her over so she landed on her front. Her legs were soon spread wide and then his tongue was having its wicked way with her once more. It was wide and rough, and she liked the way it lapped her. Very, very much.  

Somehow, he managed to coax yet another shuddering climax, although this time she ran out of shriek, whimpering pretty gibberish instead to the finish line. Her arms reached out and dug under the mountain of pillows until her fingers found the edge of the bed. Finally. Something to hold on to. She gripped the corner just in time before she buried her head in the sheets and howled. 

_Fuck, he’s dirty,_ she thought in the afterglow. _And the damn sheep probably heard that too._

* * *

“I have a friend…” Margaery started slowly. They were still in bed, the cabin air cooling their skin so the parts of her not wrapped in Tywin were starting to goosebump for the want of his heat. 

“A friend...” 

“My closest friend, really. I came to Singapore with her. Long story short, we came to find her husband who claimed he needed the half-time from his marriage for mental health reasons or something. Turns out he’s just a regular cheater after all that.” 

Margaery paused. They’d never shared about their personal lives before and in the silence that followed, Margaery now wondered with a sinking feeling if she had somehow crossed a line. 

“What does your friend want to do?” 

And at that, Margaery harrumphed impatiently even as a part of her relaxed with his question.  

“She’s not talking. Still holed up in her room, apparently. Although I hear she’s not crying anymore. That’s a start at least.” Margaery sighed. “What would you do?” 

“If I was cuckolded, you mean.” And Tywin almost sounded amused, Margaery thought. 

And suddenly she _had_ to know, curiosity gripping her. 

“If anyone ever thought to humiliate me like this...” he mused aloud, and Margaery shivered as she heard the menacing rumble of his voice through the press of her ear on his golden-haired chest. 

“I’d find a way to make that person hurt,” he finished quietly and Margaery had no doubt that he would. And that he had. 

“And so… for my friend, is that what you’re suggesting? Revenge?” 

“A lesson,” he corrected.  

“Find a way to make him hurt,” Margaery repeated thoughtfully. “Part of the problem, of course, is that he doesn’t know what he’s missing. He’s taken poor Sans for granted for _years._ ” 

“So find a way to make him learn what he’s missing. And _then_ take everything away from him.” 

“That simple huh.” 

“Never simple. But effective.” 

Another comfortable blanket of silence as Margaery chewed that one over. They still didn’t know much about the mistress — Petyr had yet to get to the bottom of _that_. But if Sansa were to have any chance of persuading Harry to come home, things were going to have to change. 

Speaking of change and Petyr, there was one itch in particular that Margaery would rather like to scratch. 

_Interesting…_

Tywin cleared his throat suddenly and the sound jolted Margaery back to the present. 

“I have children,” he volunteered abruptly. “One of them is apparently in town. We’ve made loose plans in the near future to lunch one of these days. Shouldn’t take long, I don’t think. We’re not particularly close but apparently I am to meet the latest Significant Other.” Tywin drew a long-suffering sigh. 

“And so I’d like it if you could join me that afternoon. I will need a date.” 

Margaery stilled completely. _Whoa…._

“Are you sure?” 

“Of course,” was the brusque reply. “I’m almost certain this will be a tedious affair.” He paused and then changed tack, the words almost softening now. “You will be doing me a favour.” 

Margaery tried not to read anything into this. Nor to panic. They were in the middle of nowhere, after all. Alone in the deep blue sea, sailing straight for Kawula with nothing much except the stars to guide them. Panicking was not in the cards, nor wise. 

“Sure,” was her airy reply even as her heart started to pound in her ears. Or maybe it was Tywin’s.  

* * *

Three days, and he didn’t feel like he was anywhere closer to knowing.

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Margaery cried, indignation pinking her cheeks. “What the hell have you been doing!” 

_She’s one to talk,_ Petyr grumbled to himself darkly, noting her new whole-body tan. He raised his eyebrow articulately and she finally had the grace to look sheepish. 

“This woman’s got experience,” he conceded. “She must be used to hiding her identity. Plus, she’s staying at The Stamford. That’s a small fortress right there.” 

“But you have skills, I thought!” wailed Margaery. “Don’t you? Can’t you hack into her computer or something? Intercept her calls? Install spy cams? Break into a mainframe? Play with… the… databases?” 

“What the hell are you talking about!” 

“I thought this would be right up your alley!” Margaery accused. “You have skills!" 

“This isn’t an episode of fucking Homeland!” Petyr growled, exasperated.  

“Well, what _do_ you know!" 

“Yes…” entreated a soft voice behind them, and Petyr and Margaery turned to face a slightly thinner but decidedly cheerier Sansa. “Please tell us what you know about Harry’s new girlfriend, Petyr.” 

Petyr thinned his lips, hating that he was once again the harbinger of not-great news. 

“Well for starters, we know she’s not a local like we first thought. Nor is she all that young. And she’s staying at The Stamford. I also know that in their relationship, she definitely calls the shots.” 

Petyr paused. The truth was, this woman was nothing like Sansa. She was hard, dominant, high maintenance, and dripped with the kind of sophistication that few could afford.   

Sansa, meanwhile, saluted the sun every morning in soft ass-sculpting lycra, immersed her room in wailing plinky-plonky music, tried (and failed) to help _Tai Jie_ wash the dishes every afternoon, and was already friends with all the dogs and children on his street.  

But Sansa was not a fool. 

“She’s… quite something, then. Harrold’s gone for someone way out of my league.” 

“No way!” Margaery replied fiercely. “She sounds like a rich bitch and if that’s Harrold's thing at the moment, then that has nothing to do with leagues. You are not outclassed! You are heaven, girl! And if stupid Harry won’t see that, we will _make_ him see it!” 

“I really don’t see how,” Sansa shook her head sadly. “He doesn’t even know we’re here. Or that I know." 

“Turn that into your advantage, then,” Petyr urged. “Prepare yourself and then find a way to meet him. I already know where he likes to go when he’s in the country,” Petyr offered. 

“Yes… prepare yourself,” Margaery glinted. “And we are going to help, of course. Petyr and I. By the time we’re through with you, you'll have absolutely no problems making Harrold remember what he misses.” 

And by then, Margaery fervently wished, Sansa would be ready to tie an anchor around his dick and push him into the ocean. 


	6. Change Management

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the last chapter of Sabbatical... 
> 
> Petyr found out that Dirty Harry really is Dirty Harry... Margaery takes a deep dive with Tywin on his fabulous not-chartered yacht before getting invited to meet his fam-bam... and Sansa comes out of mourning to find her friends waiting and ready to help her get her Dirty Harry back.
> 
> All caught up? Good. Here's >8,000 words of good ol' fluff.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162326344@N04/28361738298/in/dateposted-public/)

Somewhere between the second and third floor of what must be the hugest shopping mall Sansa had ever strode into, it dawned on her that she had just given Margaery Tyrell something of a blank cheque. 

“We start right after breakfast,” her friend had pronounced at the table this morning. Margaery had descended upon them in a plume of her favourite floral fragrance and a rather intimidating list. 

“What’s that,” Sansa had asked suspiciously. 

“My Harry-Situation plan,” her friend had answered airily. 

“No…” Sansa had shaken her head then. “Oh no…” 

“Darling, if you really want to make Harrold sit up and wag his tail for you, you’ve got to have a plan.” Margaery had then run a newly manicured finger down her rose-gold plated notebook, all while pilfering a fried doughy thing from Petyr’s plate. 

“That’s going to make you nice and plump, Tyrell,” Petyr had warned, before nudging another crispy one toward her with a small grin. 

“First up… wardrobe makeover.” 

“Makeover?” And Sansa’s eyebrows had knitted together as she gazed at what she’d been wearing this morning. Another sundress. Pale yellow this time, with tiny patterns all over. If one were to come right up close — as Petyr had done this morning, while reaching over for his eggs — one would realise that the patterns weren’t flowers, but teeny tiny robots. 

He had especially appreciated how high Sansa's skirt rode up her long tan legs every time she had to reach over for something. Somehow, that basket of _Tai Jie’s_ freshly deep-fried breadsticks had remained just out of her reach all breakfast.  

“What’s wrong with what I wear now?” And Margaery had exchanged a look with Petyr.  

“Nothing, dear…” Marge had replied hastily. “It’s just… um… your wardrobe is _adorable_ and all, but—“ 

“I’m not sophisticated, I know…” And Sansa had looked down at her pale yellow dress with some consternation. She rubbed a robot near her belly button and sighed. 

“Well… now that you mention it—“ 

“You can posh up my wardrobe all you want, but is it going to be like painting lipstick on a pig?” Sansa had pondered aloud and her eyes had been so big, so earnest, so troubled that Margaery had finally fallen silent. 

“I think it’s a good idea to try on a style that Harrold doesn’t expect,” Petyr had cut in smoothly. “It will make him reconsider what he knows about you. Builds mystery,” Petyr had added by way of explanation, before adding rather feelingly, “There’s nothing wrong with what you wear.”  

“Oh Sans… we’ll work on your inside _and_ outside, you’ll see.” Margaery had waved her notepad. “There is a program!” 

And Sansa had looked pained, excited, apprehensive, thankful and confused all at once.  

And then— 

“I’ll come with you,” Petyr had offered suddenly, and both women had turned to stare at him then. 

“Really?” Sansa had perked up, a happy, hopeful smile on her face. 

“Really…?” And Margaery had looked at Petyr thoughtfully, her lips pursed and curved into a smile.   

Petyr had shrugged as he grabbed his car keys, his gaze fixed on Sansa as he assiduously avoided Margaery's. “Really." 

* * *

When Margaery’s on a mission, Sansa remembered now, Margaery shops _fast_. Also, for someone who hated running as much as Margaery did, both Petyr and Sansa had to quietly admire her stamina and speed on a pair of Edward Meller high-heeled open-toe boots, no less. 

Pointing at the assortment of clothes paraded by the cowed shop assistant before Sansa now, Margaery intoned her judgement like a doomsday prophet clad in vintage Herrera. 

“Yes — No — No — No — _GODS_ , No — Yes — Yes — Maybe.” Regarding the last, Margaery finally turned to their clothes horse. “What do you think about that one, Sans?” 

“How much does it cost?” Sansa whispered in return, and Margaery waved her fingers. 

“Consider it a loan. I’ll buy them, and you can borrow!” 

“That’s a pair of pants, and I’m at least half a head taller than you,” Sansa whispered again, squinting at the price tag. She pulled her head back sharply when she read it properly. “Is that decimal point where I think it is?”  

“Stop whipping out the mental calculator. Do you like it or not!” 

“Ah…” 

“Get them,” Petyr answered easily from the corner of the room. He had appropriated the armchair as soon as he'd entered the boutique, affecting a slightly disinterested air even as he devoured the sight before him. _Lilo Tang_ was a local designer Petyr had vaguely heard about but never cared for.  

Until now.  

Those pants, he remembered, made Sansa's ass look even more kissable than ever. _Lilo Tang_ was a fucking sartorial savant. 

_God_ , she had a dream body. A designer’s wish come true, the way clothes hung on her toned, tall frame, clinging in all the right places if they were worth their outrageous asking price. Every shop they entered was a veritable feast for Petyr, which was why he grabbed the cushiest seat near the fitting rooms as soon as he could. All the better to sit and contemplate the female form. This woman could carry off any style, any look — and more, if only she had the confidence she sorely lacked at present, thanks to her dropkick husband. Thank goodness for Margaery, the scariest, most single-minded personal shopper this side of town. Margaery knew what she was looking for, even if Sansa hadn’t a clue. And her taste was spot-on, alright. 

There had been a couple of times before when they had all walked past the lingerie section and Margaery had turned to him then and waggled an eyebrow. 

“Bugger off, Tyrell.” he would murmur each and every time, and Margaery would look like the smuggest of cats with cream. 

They were just about to walk into another local designer when Petyr discreetly touched Margaery’s elbow so she turned, her ear inclined towards his mouth.  

"I know this designer. Timeless, classic pieces. And…” he hesitated now. “No price tags in the room.” 

“Sansa’s going to freak. She’s an innocent. But even she understands what that means.” 

Petyr shrugged. “Wouldn’t hurt to have a wander in."  

The two friends gazed at each other, yet another wordless dialogue crisscrossing the air between them. “If you say so,” Margaery finally smirked before turning on her heel and commandeering Sansa into the hallowed doorways of _Kenny Long_. 

“Try this one, darling…” Margaery was cooing now, after taking a sidelong glance at Petyr as he discreetly pointed out the dress he had in mind. Sansa baulked immediately. 

“Margee!” Sansa hissed. “What are we _doing_ here!” 

“What we’ve been doing all morning, poshing you up!” 

“I cannot afford anything in this shop!” 

And Margaery had waved her hand dismissively. But goodness, that was a _gorgeous_ dress. The tiny beading alone would have cost a fortune... 

“Is this handmade?” Margaery piped up, hesitant to even touch anything now, suddenly respectful.  

“Every piece is this shop is one of a kind, ma’am,” the bespectacled shop assistant had replied in a soft cultured voice that hinted of an education abroad. “And hand-stitched. Including the embroidery.” The shop assistant smiled suddenly now. “Petyr Baelish." 

“Kenny,” Petyr smiled warmly then, strolling past Margaery’s open-mouth surprise. “Long time!” 

* * *

_I cannot possibly wear this,_ thought poor Sansa. For the longer she stood there gazing back at herself, the more she fell in love with the dress that Margaery had picked.

_I cannot possibly afford this!_ But even now, Sansa was starting to sway side to side, watching as the skirt flared slightly, light as gossamer.She could be _anything_ in this, Sansa realised. Princess. Vixen. Ingenue.  _I would have worn this at my wedding,_ realised Sansa wistfully. _Even though it’s a light grey._ She started to swish the skirt again, noting how her legs looked between the long panels, the slits right up to there...  

“You like it?” Petyr asked politely. He stood behind her now, looking over her shoulder and staring at her unblinkingly through the mirror. “You look very beautiful,” he stated matter-of-factly and she blushed slightly then. 

“It’s my favourite out of all the things I’ve tried today,” she squeaked confidentially in his ear. “But I won’t let Margaery get it for me.” 

He nodded then. “I won’t let her,” he promised.  

* * *

“My feet aaaaache…” Sansa moaned. She was slumped in her chair now, leaning slightly on Petyr’s arm. He wasn’t moving anytime soon.

“Amateurs,” Margaery snorted. But she reached over and rubbed Sansa’s knee affectionately. “I miss shopping with you!” 

“We have never shopped like _that_ before,” Sansa pointed out now. Usually, Margaery was the clothes horse and Sansa would be the cheerleader. It was rather strange to have the shoe on the other foot. Sansa sighed at the bags littered around their feet. They had shopped right past lunch. A twinge of something, a sudden burst of love and affection for her generous friend warmed her insides and her smile just then. “I miss shopping with you too,” Sansa added feelingly. “We don’t do enough of this!” 

“That’s because you’re married,” Margaery replied flippantly and then kicked herself for her thoughtlessness. It was almost too easy to let her resentment of Sansa’s marriage to Dirty Harry peek through. Even after all these years.  

It’s hard enough to feel like you’ve lost your best friend to a marriage. But when the guy in question is a drip like Harrold... 

Margaery wisely chose to change tack then. 

“You’re going to knock Harrold’s socks off,” Margaery declared smugly. She took her notebook out right then. “Big tick!” she crowed as she checked a rather large box on her list.  

And then her phone lit up. 

Petyr watched as Margaery stared at the message before her. _Ah, the elusive Mr T,_ he immediately deduced. Margaery had that rather wild, slightly panicked, gleeful look about her once more. Although this time, perhaps she looked more panicked than usual. 

She texted back immediately, only to receive a reply fifteen seconds later. 

“Right!” Margaery snapped up now to face both Sansa and Petyr. “Mr T wants to take me out to lunch. Says he hasn’t had lunch either. And he’s nearby!” Margaery looked down at what she was wearing—her dark spun-rayon shift dress diving down the front in a tantalising vee, her open-toe boots emphasising slim calves while giving her temporarily impressive height… 

“I can’t go to lunch wearing this!” Margaery squeaked, looking suddenly unsure. “My hair’s a mess! I’m wearing a sack… I didn’t dress for lunch with the T!” 

“You look wonderful, Margee! What do you mean!” 

But Margaery was not having it, even while she was vaguely aware of something rather off-kilter about her response at present. Two girl-power articles on _Lipp!_ about dressing for yourself rather than your man sprung to mind, and were immediately ground to dust under her Edward Mellers. 

“I have to go shopping now!” And Petyr looked on, bemused, as Margaery sprang to her feet and ran back in the general direction of _Lilo Tang_ , Sansa dutifully hot on her heels. 

* * *

“I cannot believe she dumped us for a boy!” chortled Sansa now. But secretly, she was absolutely chuffed. It had been a long, long time since she’d seen Margaery that giddy over a boy. Even counting the ex-husbands. 

Sansa couldn’t remember the last time Margaery had ditched her for a date.  

Margaery was still very coy about her Mr T, still insisting that this was nothing more than a summer fling. “It’s casual! Just two people having fun on their holiday!” 

As if. Sansa had watched as Margaery had dropped an eye-watering sum on a skin-tight dress that was a modern take on the traditional Chinese _cheongsam_. And then she had popped next door and bought herself a four-hundred-dollar pair of Louboutins _she already owned_ before dashing to the nearest Dior cosmetic kiosk and demanding a quick—and she meant _quick_ —makeover.  

Petyr opened the boot of his car now and dropped the morning’s haul in it, including Margaery’s original outfit, now stuffed haphazardly in a _Lilo Tang_ paperbag. “Special edition,” the shop assistant had assured Sansa and Margaery, before drowning the both of them in breath mints and discount vouchers for their next visit. Today’s spendings had given him enough commission to last him a month. If he hadn’t been so intimidated by Margaery, the man might have kissed her. 

Petyr left a bag out. 

“Would you like to put this on now?” And Sansa peered into the bag, noting which dress this one was. The Brooks Brothers, in a near-black navy. Scoop neckline, short sleeves, with a close flattering fit on top before the silhouette caught at her hip and opened into a slight flare. It was simple, classy, feminine, and above all, versatile. 

He fished out her new pair of kitten heels too—black, with a high shine. 

“What’s going on?” Sansa asked, but the question wasn’t an accusation, merely one of genuine curiosity. 

“Late lunch,” Petyr answered smoothly. “Somewhere nice. Margaery’s gone AWOL, but we can still work on your little project. Together."  

* * *

Tywin's lips puckered slightly in disapproval. Against his better judgement, he had agreed for Alayne to meet him here instead of swinging by to pick her up himself. “I’m with friends,” she had explained through her text and then stopped, but he instantly understood all too well what that had meant. She had not told her friends about him. Who he was. What he looked like.

What he was old enough to be.  

He stretched his legs under the table and willed himself not to growl with impatience. He was unused to this, to waiting. To being made to wait. People knew, instinctively just knew, not to make him wait. 

Alayne, as Tywin was starting to learn, was not _people_. And _people_ were not Alayne Stone. 

Tywin could have asked for the private function room like he usually did. He never did enjoy partaking a decent meal in the company of… _others_.  

But today, in a moment of uncharacteristic whimsy, Tywin had decided to share a meal with the delectable Alayne Stone in the middle of his favourite French restaurant, in the light of day. With the riffraff. 

The riffraff who could now see how Tywin was sitting all by his lonesome. Waiting. 

He knew the moment she entered the room. _Les Amis_ was not usually packed out during lunch, but even then there was a collective ripple in the restaurant that he could feel with his old spidey senses. But Tywin did not look up. Instead, he flicked through the wine list even though he knew exactly what he was going to have—he’d been intimately acquainted with their cellar for years. He felt every word as she spoke to the _maître d’_ before breezily making her way to him, her heels dulled in the thick pile of carpet. 

When he finally looked up, his face was one of icy boredom. But he noticed everything. The dress—hand-painted silk Chinoiserie, tasteful but by no means a classic. Her curves, every single one of them. Her youth and vitality. The way she smiled, lips closed and twisted. Wry. Eyes narrowed cat-like as if ready to pounce and play.  

“I’ve not Frenched in a while,” Alayne observed, before looking square at Tywin. “ _Food,_ Tywin. Not done French cuisine, or at least the proper sort.” She smiled at him, perfect teeth flashing now. “You look very handsome.” 

And just like that, Tywin forgot about waiting. He forgot about the hoi-polloi. He almost forgave the mad rush over from the other side of town only to find that she wasn’t here already waiting for him. Even though she was a mere ten-minute walk away from this tower block.  

Aggravating young woman.  

“Thank you,” he clipped. “And you look rather fetching yourself.” 

“Fetching…” she repeated his word, and smiled softly. 

She leaned over and he caught his first whiff of her and felt something within him stir immediately in response. And then he wondered why he had thought it such a good idea to have their meal in public instead of behind closed doors like he usually did. 

He handed her the menu. “I’ve ordered a bottle of _Rosé_ ,” he explained. “You’ll like it, I think.” 

“You’re getting very good at working out what I like,” Alayne grinned in return and he felt something in him stutter, but no. She had not meant that to be suggestive. And yet it had come out that way. And yet not.  

For Alayne Stone, he was learning, is a mess of contradictions as chaotic as her dark brown mane after a good hard rumble in bed. _Mondaine_ and yet amusingly parochial at times. Cynical and knowing, yet candid and artless. In one breath, she would drop a small fortune in aid of a friend, then turn around and regale him with her ‘finds’ at a ghastly retail hovel sporting pre-loved designer goods, of all things. _And then wear them._ And yet she did not care to change herself in order to improve his estimation of her. Which only resulted, of course, in his grudgingly giving it all the more. 

Women older and far more accomplished than she had long endeavoured to mould themselves to fit against his punishing ideals. This slip of a girl merely twists her lips before mouthing something either irreverent or bizarrely insightful. 

And of course, she was a real firecracker in bed. But then she’d kiss him with all the innocence of a springtime lamb and freshly laundered cotton panties. Which only made him wonder.    

She surprised him—a rarity for an old lion like him. And he rather enjoyed surprising her in return.  

When he stretched his other leg out, he felt her bare leg slide across and graze his own. Her eyes danced, and so his did too. 

* * *

Until she arrived at _Les Amis_ , Margaery hadn’t understood what she had just agreed to doing.

_This_ now, this is all new.  

For the first time since she sashayed over to Tywin and crapped on about him looking like a colonist, Margaery was uncertain how to behave around him. It was one thing to sneak around the Raffles and then have breakfast in a discreet part of the courtyard. As for the days spent snorkelling in the Savu Sea and then diving under his bed covers… after Margaery had gotten over his yacht crew learning the exact rhythm of her pre-climax hyperventilation, it all still felt rather private. Just them, screening out the world. 

But this? This is public-facing stuff. And for once, she was only too aware of how they must look to the world. 

“Is your Vendeé duck alright?” Tywin was asking now with deceptive nonchalance as he took another sip of the _Rosé_. That was the other thing. Margaery had stolen a look at the label and almost yelped when she recognised it as one of the most venerable vintage in their cellar. A cool forty-five hundred bucks poured down her throat at lunch. She swallowed and lost more of her appetite. 

At least _he_ didn’t seem to mind the gawking. And there was definitely some degree of curiosity in the neighbouring tables, judging from the quick aversion of eye contact as soon as she glanced over this way or that. _Bloody Mr T,_ Margaery thought. Something-something lions and the opinion of sheep. But she can’t switch off like him. 

They continued their meal in silence, the gentle patter of their usual conversation temporarily strangled by the train of thought rushing through her mind, dominating everything. 

And oh god, there’s a woman and she was walking this way. To their table. 

“Tywin,” she greeted him now, and placed a kiss on his cheek with a warmth and familiarity which he did not quite return.   

“Mrs Cheng,” he replied coolly.  

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to… your…” 

“This is Alayne Stone. Alayne, this is Beatrice Cheng. Formerly married to the previous Auditor General.” 

“Pleasure to meet you, Mrs Cheng!” Margaery beamed and shook the lady’s limp hand. 

“Stone…” Mrs Cheng pondered with a small frown. “I didn’t know there was anyone in your family with that name.” 

“There isn’t,” Tywin replied tersely. Margaery pressed her leg lightly against his own once more and she watched as their eyes locked across the table and his jaw started to relax slightly.  

“And I never knew you had such a pretty… granddaughter?” She frowned, as if puzzled. “Niece?” 

“Neither, 'm afraid!” replied Margaery cheerily, her train of thought now happily derailed and heading to a new destination fast. She reached over now and twined her fingers with Tywin’s. 

A corner of his mouth twitched. And then she watched as his gaze hardened before he turned to face Mrs Cheng’s scandalised astonishment. 

“Please excuse us,” he intoned. “Alayne and I were just about to embark on a delightful discussion.” 

A look of confusion crossed Mrs Cheng’s face before the older woman finally pieced together the elegant fuck-off she just received, Tywin-style. 

“Of course,” she murmured. “So-good-to-see-you-again. Please-send-your-family-my-best-regards.”  

His eyes never left hers even as they felt Mrs Cheng retreat. Margaery was finally able to relax for the first time since she entered the establishment. She tucked happily into her roasted duck now and was rather pleasantly surprised by the burst of flavours.  

“Delightful discussion, hmm?” teased Margaery now. Tywin’s scowl was still etched deep in his face but at least his eyes had softened. 

“Yes,” he replied now, wiping his mouth with his napkin. Margaery noticed that his hand was still in hers. Eating duck one-handed was a skill that Margaery was quite happy to muster. Thank goodness the meat was so soft, she could almost spoon the thing off the bone. 

“And when are we having this delightful discussion?” she purred, eyes flicking up in challenge now.  

“The moment you finish that damn duck so we can get the bloody dickens away from here." 

* * *

_Onyx_ was a relatively new fine-dining restaurant that Petyr had no intention of trying out before. It wasn’t that the food was terrible—it had received rave reviews since it opened late last month. He just tended to find these places rather soulless and unoriginal. 

Still. There was an experiment to conduct. And this was as good a place as any, he supposed. 

He glanced over to the absolute stunner standing tall and a little awe-struck beside him. _Onyx_ definitely had a flair for the dramatic, he would give them that. The ceiling was about three storeys high with long tendrils ending in teardrop bulbs falling from the top of the room as if it were raining light. As for the décor, it was fifty shades of light-sucking black and blacker velvet, satin, and lace. After a blinding hot afternoon outside, this restaurant was almost surreal. 

They were guided to the bar to wait as the staff prepared a table. Even though it was almost touching half-past-two, the restaurant was still abuzz with grand-opening hype. Petyr took this time to lean close and murmur into Sansa’s ear. 

“Look around you, Sansa…” And he watched in satisfaction as she turned dutifully to observe the room from their cosy little perch. “See that couple over there, the lady in the green dress. What do you think of her?” 

“Um…” And Sansa furrowed her brow in concentration. “She’s rich, I suppose? Or well-to-do. Her dress looks expensive.” 

“Do you think that’s her husband? Or her _paramour_?” 

The lady in question was seated facing them, her lunching companion’s balding head the only thing they could make of him. Even now, though, he was nodding studiously as she pouted like a fish. 

“ _Paramour_ …” Sansa guessed. “Maybe.” 

“I’m guessing the same,” Petyr concurred, edging just a little closer. She smelled of soap and fruit and a soft musk. “What makes you think that? What’s forming that impression, you think?” 

“I don’t know exactly…” But Sansa was cocking her head to the side in quiet contemplation. “Her confidence, maybe? Something about the way she looks at him, as if she calls all the shots…” 

As if on cue, Green Lady narrowed her eyes at her companion. The purse of her lips spoke volumes. Both of them watched in quiet fascination as their Balding Eagle faltered, then bargained feebly before he finally capitulated. It took two minutes, tops.  

“She didn’t need to say very much!” 

“No she didn’t,” Petyr agreed. “And you’re right. The power resides in her. You know why he will give her anything?” 

“Why?” Sansa asked, a little breathlessly. 

“Because she withholds. Because she is a mystery. Because he wants her more than she cares for him.” His eyes glinted now as he turned to look at Sansa. “The chase, you see. It keeps such men alive." 

* * *

The _sommelier_ had actually visited their table to pay his compliments, trying his damnedest to hide how absolutely pleased he was. That was how she knew that Tywin made an effort today.

" _Moët et Chandon, Cuvée Dom Pérignon Rosé…_ ” Margaery was reading out now. “A litre and a half!” She had three full-ish glasses thus far, and if her math were right… a standard restaurant serve was 150 millilitres… a standard bottle was 750 millilitres… _this_ baby was double the standard bottle, and she had over a third of it maybe, which would mean that so far she had drunk forty-five hundred dollars divided by um… by uh…  

She smiled sweetly at Tywin. “I like this _Rosé_ ,” she declared, giving him a thumb’s up. “You are stupendous! You really _do_ know what I like!” She gave him a toothy grin.  

Tywin gazed coolly back and fought to contain the rather appalling warmth spreading far and wide inside his chest that felt suspiciously less like the effects of the _Rosé_ and more because he couldn’t decide if he wanted to berate her or kiss her.  

It would be churlish to scold her, really. He had too much to drink himself. 

“Hmmm,” was all he replied with, before waving the waiter over. “Have this stored. We’ll have the rest another day.” And then he straightened his back, planting both his feet on the ground and testing how wobbly he might be himself. 

“Come on, Alayne,” he murmured now. “Let’s get us ho—“ He stopped himself in time. “Let’s get back to the hotel.” 

“The hotel, the hotel!” She was chanting softly now. He held out his arm and she slipped her hand easily into the crook, nuzzling her head into his shoulder. All her earlier inhibitions seemed well and truly vanquished now. As were his.  

Definitely not his granddaughter.  

She leaned up into his ear. “I like the _Rosé_ , but Tywin… you are one tall drink of water I would have any day of the week.” She stopped suddenly, as if she just heard herself. And then with a wave of her fingers, that gossamer thread of thought disappeared into the ether. 

It’s funny, thought Tywin right then. Women who threw themselves at him—a regular occurrence, the older and more powerful he got—tended to extract the equal and opposite reaction from him. An immediate loathing, usually. A healthy dose of suspicion, followed almost always by the free-fall of his regard for the lady in question. 

He felt none of any of that right now. Only gentle amusement.  

They just managed to step through the long corridor leading out to the elevator when the unmistakable artificial click of a camera could be heard. 

And then another. And another. 

Tywin turned to find a short, stocky caucasian man brazenly aiming his obnoxious smartphone at the pair of them. Fourth click, fifth, sixth…  

“What the hell do you think—“ Tywin started towards the man before the expected happened. Two of his own men materialised behind him, one grabbing the tubby photographer while the other coolly ripped the phone from his hand and passed it over to Tywin. 

“My phone!” Happy Snaps cried, indignant. He tried to get at Tywin, but his two men proved to make an immovable wall. “What the hell you gonna do to my phone!" 

“Well it depends,” drawled Tywin. “Are you media?” He narrowed his eyes. 

The man paused as if to consider his options. _Media, then._ Tywin casually tossed the offending gadget on the ground. Everyone else cringed as they heard it clatter on the hard marble floor. 

“That’s my phone!” he yelled. 

“That’s his phone!” Alayne echoed, horrified. Tywin rolled his eyes. 

“Give me your password.” 

“Noooo… okay, okay…” he recanted, as Tywin raised an eyebrow before raising a foot. “Two-eight-four-seven-six.” 

Everyone watched as Tywin deleted the photos. The bastard had even taken a video. He glared at the tubby photographer and the latter visibly quailed. 

Tywin strode over and handed the phone back. His voice was silky and dangerous as he reminded, “Everyone knows never to take my picture.” Tywin drew himself up even taller so the man shrank back. “ _Everyone_ ,” he growled. 

* * *

“See anything you like?” Petyr asked.

“Um… yes, actually. Lots. Everything looks so good!” And as if on cue, Sansa’s tummy rumbled tellingly and she grinned sheepishly. They shared a  chuckle. 

“I think I’ll go with the fish,” Sansa finally decided.  

“Excellent choice,” Petyr approved. But then he leaned forward. “Anything you’d change in your order? The salad, perhaps?” 

“No…” Sansa shook her head. She’d never been fond of watercress, in all honesty. Or cherry tomatoes, if she were to be absolutely painful. Which she wasn’t inclined to be. “No,” she shook her head again. "I trust the chefs. He—or she—knows what they're doing.” 

“Sansa, let’s try something,” Petyr paused now, placing his menu face down on the table. "I’d like for you to try and change your order somehow. Be specific. Maybe ask for a different dressing. Or ask for more of something, or change the salad. Doesn’t matter if you actually like the dish as it is. The important thing here is to ask for what you want. Do you think you can try?” 

Did she think she could try? Perhaps... But the staff, they were probably already run off their feet with the constant crowd coming in… 

Sansa shook her head. “Maybe another day? They look kinda busy.” 

Petyr smiled. “I think they can cope. In fact, with the kind of clientele these guys probably pull in, I’d say they’re used to it.” He looked over to read the detail of what Sansa was thinking of ordering. “Do you like watercress?” 

“Ugh,” Sansa pulled her face without thinking. “No, actually.” 

“Change it to something sweeter. Or ask them to take it out.” 

“What if the salad is already pre-made!” 

“Then ask them to pick the watercress out.” 

Petyr arched his eyebrow pointedly and Sansa sank lower into her seat. Maybe, if she asked very nicely and they said they couldn’t… 

“Try and be assertive, Sansa.” Petyr grinned. “Don’t take no for an answer. Even if you feel like a total cow inside. Stand your ground. Find a way to ask for what you want.” He reached over and gave two soft taps on the back of her hand. “You’ll be fine. Trust me.” Petyr leaned back into his chair. “They’re used to it.” 

“Alright.” 

“Ready?” And she watched as he looked about the room and made eye contact with a waiter.  

“And what would you like to have today?” His name was Jun Heng, Sansa read his tag.  

“I’ll have the Wagyu sirloin, medium rare, with the mushroom sauce and the pepper on the side. Change the chat potatoes to more of the sweet potatoes, please. And I’ll have the salad with no dressing. A macchiato now, thank you.” Petyr turned to look at Sansa, smiling slightly as if to say, _See? Just like that._

“And what will you be having today, ma’am?” 

“I’ll have the salmon,” she replied, smiling brightly. “And uh… and the salad, um… is it possible to take the watercress out?” 

“The salad is pre-mixed in the kitchen, ma’am…”  

“Oh well then, it’s alright, I’ll just—“ 

She felt a press on her leg and faltered. _Oh poo._

“Uh… b-baby spinach leaves, perhaps?” She looked up at Jun Heng hopefully.  

“Yes, we have that.” 

“Oh good! Oh that’s very good. I’ll have that instead.” 

“Just the baby spinach ma’am?”  

_Oh dear,_ thought Sansa. He misunderstood. She was hoping he would swop the watercress with it. But maybe they really, really couldn’t. 

She felt Petyr’s hand as he stroked lightly down the length of her arm before ending with a quick, reassuring squeeze of her hand. When she turned to look at him, he had just a hint of a smile on his face. But his eyes were watchful. 

She swallowed. 

“Um… I was hoping I could have the baby spinach instead of the watercress…” She watched as a small crease started to form on the waiter’s brow. “Oh... no it’s alright, then. You said it was already pre-mixed. Well… uh…” Sansa looked at the menu again and read out the ingredients. 

“Could I have the spinach with the walnuts, then? With the Caesar dressing? And… and some sliced pear? A-and… um… a handful of pomegranate seeds… and oh, the shaved parmesan… and uh…” Petyr did say to be specific. 

“I’ll see what the kitchen can do about removing the watercress and replacing it with baby spinach leaves in your salad, ma’am.”  

Sansa brightened. She did it! Kind of. She beamed back happily at the waiter whose face was schooled to neutral by imperturbable professionalism. “If it’s not too much trouble,” she replied demurely, with what she hoped was her prettiest smile. 

They waited until Jun Heng was out of earshot. 

“I did it!” Sansa squealed softly. And Petyr chuckled. 

“That was one way, I suppose.” He twisted his mouth in amusement and shook his head slightly. God, she had such a long way to go. He had to laugh. He couldn’t imagine Harrold’s bitch putting up with the first line of resistance from that waiter. He had seen the way she’d looked at Harry when he dared to be late that time. That woman had a glare that could slice through a man clean like a laser.  

And yet… Sansa had gotten her way in the end, didn’t she. She had risen to his challenge and then met it in her own inimitable way.  

_Hmmm..._

To turn soft sweetness and light into something hard, seductive and dark. Or at least, to give enough of a show for Harrold to pause long enough to take a second look at the wife who loved him. _Stupid, blind ingrate._ Once more, Petyr swallowed the bile and tried to loosen the grip of jealousy that came and went as soon as his thoughts conjured their inevitable reunion. He could sabotage it all, of course. Petyr was still deciding, if he were to be perfectly honest. 

His pupil, at least, seemed honestly relieved at the tiny ordeal he had just put her through. Petyr rolled his eyes and covered another smile with his hand. And because he honestly couldn’t help himself, he stroked lightly across her forearm with his other before gently squeezing her fingers once more.  

* * *

They were silent on the way back to the Raffles Hotel, Alayne chewing her lower lip and staring out the window at the passing scenery he knew she was hardly taking in. Tywin tried to be patient, even though it was right at the tip of his tongue to demand to know what she was mulling over. Or at least to stop biting her lip like that, until it looked almost bee-stung.

He sighed finally, and worked to squelch the faint flutter of unease. He did what he always did in times like these—mask it all instead with barely concealed irritation. 

“You’re upset about the photographer.” 

“No, I’m not.” 

“You’re lying.” 

At that, Alayne’s head snapped round to face him squarely. _Good_. He had gotten her attention now. That was a start.    

“I beg your pardon!” 

And he cupped her jaw gently, tilting it up so he could eyeball her. “I don’t like having my picture taken.” 

“So you’ve said,” she huffed. But Alayne’s eyes were watchful now. “Did you have to be so… You practically strong-armed him!” 

“No I didn’t,” he replied mildly. His men did, he smirked to himself. And even if he had stomped on the offending phone, so what, Tywin growled to himself. It was cheek, pure and simple. The man should have known. He had gotten away lightly, as far as Tywin was concerned. And only because Tywin had, in a rare moment of weakness or maudlin consideration of how appalled Alayne had looked, adjusted his actions.  

He really did have to remember to have choice words with people at Singapore Press Holdings. If they hadn’t already heard and started to grovel. 

But something else was troubling Alayne. He willed himself not to press the issue further, even as his jaw clenched. They alighted in silence. Ascended the steps to his suite in silence. He felt the flames of irritation lick higher when she dropped her purse on his couch, and then spun around to face him, placing a hand on his chest as if to preempt an attempt from him to distract her carnally. 

And then those dreaded words that never failed to elicit a groan from him somewhere deep. 

“We need to talk.” 

_Groan_. 

“Or rather… I have some questions. Well, really. _A_ question.” 

Perhaps this evening’s interlude will be shortened considerably. Again, Tywin fought to tamp down his exasperation. He had no time for this. 

“Who are you?” 

He blinked then. They had never gone into details, although privately he had his people look into her of course. Standard protocol. Force of habit really. 

But until now, theirs was something of an arrangement that was predicated on Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell. 

She was asking now, he knew. 

* * *

Margaery watched as Tywin worked his jaw and in the silence that followed, she started to list what she was coming to realise.

“You’re not just rich… you’re _crazy_ rich,” she started in a low voice. “But you’re not just crazy rich either. You’re kind of a big deal here.” 

Again with the watching and waiting. Margaery took a deep breath and ploughed on. 

“You’re not here on a holiday, are you. Or some extended break or something… You actually live here.” 

She waited. 

And now it was his turn to speak slowly, choosing his words. “You don’t think I actually live _here_ , do you?” He opened his arms, extended his palms and looked about the room. 

“No of course not,” Margaery returned a little scornfully. But still she hesitated. “I thought you were a tourist… but now I think you’re not.” 

The questions on the tip of her tongue! _The_ question emblazoned in neon across her mind! And yet, such a difficult thing to ask of Tywin.  

_What are we. What’s going on here. Who am I to you. You rent a suite at twenty-thousand Sing a day for weeks, just for us? Surely not. Surely?_

He was walking towards her now. Slowly. Again, Margaery was reminded faintly of a prowling tiger. She held her breath. 

“Alayne…” And he brushed the back of his fingers down her cheek. “I never said I was a tourist.” 

“Well… I am,” she gulped. “I’m not here for very long. My stay here is indefinite. But it’s just that. A stay.” 

“Pity,” he murmured and then his face descended, his mouth crushing hers with such sickening certainty. And Margaery felt herself fall into him once more. Her legs actually buckled and then her arms were snaking up around his neck and drawing him greedily to her. She drank his kiss thirstily, and felt something like fire rush from the contact of them right down, down, down so low.  

Sickening, sickening man. 

Except this time, there was something else too.  

She watched him watch her as she fumbled with his tie, feeling the heavy silk as her hand ran down the length of it before she slid it out of his round club collar. He watched her as she freed each button, as she helped him shrug out of his white double-breasted jacket, marvelling yet again at how utterly dapper he looked. Here was a truly filthy-rich man in Singapore, she realised. He could wear a bespoke double-breasted suit in the sweltering humidity precisely because he could literally afford not to ever break a sweat.  

He spun her around then, pressing her into the wall slowly, deliberately before sliding her back zip down until it ended just at the curve of her ass. She felt his hands as they slid under the dress, as he peeled the silk down her frame as if she were a calla lily and her dress, its single petal. When he placed a kiss on the back of her neck, Margaery swore he set her on fire. 

This time, there was no frenzy. This time, there was no urgency. It was almost as if his admission of being a local had slowed time down. Because now at least one of them had roots long and deep enough to anchor them both. She had wondered, she realised. She had been waiting for him to tell her that he was leaving today or tomorrow or the day after. That just like that, this would all end. And she would have to feign a devil-may-care grin and a hair-flip as she blew him a cheery kiss and thanked him for a lovely long fuckathon.    

He had her outstretched now, on the bed. No kinky fuckery. No taking her up against the wall, from behind so she was scrabbling at it for grip as she shrieked her approval. No wining, dining, dirty _dirty_ sixty-nining. No. They were both completely naked now. Bared from top to toe. He had probably kissed away every scrap of Dior on her face.  

He lay on top of her, bracing the weight of his body. But not the crushing, bruising weight of his stare. 

They gazed at each other for an eternity of minutes. There was nothing to say, even as he eventually slammed into her and her body shuddered around him, revelling in how delicious he felt. And then he lay perfectly still. And she was utterly, completely filled. Content.   

When their lips finally met once more, there came with it a telltale stirring within her. A clamouring of her heart. A shit-fuck-damn-oh-no feeling.  

* * *

For the first time in at least a week, Sansa was actually enjoying herself. And Petyr felt gratified.

Eventually, Petyr had driven them closer to the bay, rather near the Raffles Hotel. He had parked in a shopping mall and then they had walked the evening away. Neither of them had felt much like eating after such a recent lunch but then they had talked for hours and eventually they'd wandered into an open-air food court. Again, he had gone overboard, secretly anxious to introduce her to the smorgasbord of food in the country. And again, something like pride and affection had swelled within him as he witnessed her sense of adventure.  

She was just artless. Margaery would often tease her about being a country bumpkin. But there was just something still so unspoiled about her, even with her recent marital disappointments.  

She was walking alongside him now, just a fraction shorter finally as she kicked her kitten heels off and held them in her hand. The food court was near the waterline and their footsteps had naturally turned towards the esplanade. They were making their way along the length of it now, taking in the cityscape glittering and showy in the night. She would point at buildings, at strange and peculiar touristy sights. It gave him much pleasure to be her teacher.  

She had not bothered to reapply her lipstick. The natural red of her lips looked pale in the streetlight and utterly, _utterly_ kissable. She really was the antithesis of that rich bitch he had seen Harrold with, with her easy laugh and her wide-eyed appreciation of a country she had hardly found the time to explore and appreciate.  

Chalk and cheese. Viper and Venus.  

“When did you start writing?” he was asking now. The land breeze was gentle but still merciful after a day of oppressive heat. He watched as long tendrils of her hair curled around her face, her mouth now twisted in thought.   

“I must have been nineteen, I think. I was still at Uni, I remember. Harrold and I weren’t even married back then.” She glanced at him and then smiled almost shyly before she turned back to look straight ahead once more. “Of course, I never thought it’d take me so far. Or that I’d write for a living. I wasn’t always successful, you know. The first few pretty much limped along. And then came my blockbusters.” 

“Oh?” Petyr asked, curiosity piqued. “Anything I might have heard of?” 

“Maybe,” Sansa answered, face serious. “It was a series of books. _Baby, baby;_   _Ooh Baby Baby,_ and  _Ooh Baby Baby 2_.” 

There was a terrible silence after that as Sansa waited. _God_ , Petyr cringed, _that’s bloody awful_. But still he managed to keep his face blank, a benign smile plastered on.  

_Fucking hell. That’s appalling._

His smile was just starting to wilt around the corners when Sansa’s straight face finally crumbled and he watched in surprise as she threw her head back and laughed. “Oh your face!” she cackled. “No, I swear my titles weren’t so bad. But they were close. I won’t ever tell you what they are. Suffice to say, they’ve got nothing on Quantum Cryptography.” Sansa grinned. “They helped to pay our bills, though.” 

Petyr was in love.  

“Thanks again, by the way,” she added more softly now. “Your time must be so precious, and yet you’ve been so generous with it. And so helpful and encouraging. I can’t thank you enough. You’ve made this trip so much more bearable, honestly.” 

Petyr made a noise that sounded like a raspberry mixed with a groan. _Wonderful_ , he griped at himself. He’d presented papers in international conferences and argued with governments in four languages and two dialects. But sure, grunt at the girl.    

“Can I ask a question?” 

“Sure, Sansa.” Whether he could answer her truthfully, though… Petyr couldn’t promise that right now. He wasn’t sure he could trust himself around her much longer. 

“Harrold’s mistress…” The words hung in the air discomfiting to Sansa and galling to him. “What should I do about her?” 

“Well…” Petyr answered blandly. “If you stab her right at the angle where the thigh meets the groin, you’re going to hit the femoral artery and she’ll bleed out nicely.” 

Sansa laughed. “I should have qualified that question—I’d like not to go to jail, please!” 

“Then your options are drastically reduced now.” But Petyr was grinning. 

“You’ve seen her, I know…” And Sansa’s gaze was searching now. “Honestly, tell me. What am I up against? Today’s lessons… that whole thing about taking what I want, about being assertive… She’s something, isn’t she. Formidable.” 

“It’s going to be tough,” he finally admitted. But Sansa didn’t seem to deflate with his assessment. If anything, she seemed to square her shoulders.  

“But is it impossible?” 

And this time, he couldn’t resist sweeping a lock of her hair around her ear. “Of course not, Sansa.” He smiled. “We’ll get you there. You’ll see. You’re going to drive him wild. He won’t know what’s hit him.” 

And something in his chest twinged as he watched Sansa smile, suddenly heartened.  

“You know…” she mused now, looking around her, “I haven’t really played the tourist since I got here.” She took out her phone now. “Take a picture with me?” 

And they leaned against the bannister, the Singapore skyline their backdrop—a twinkling kaleidoscope of colours, the breeze rushing out to the water mussing her hair. Camera aimed, smiles goofy, heads touching. 

“I’d like a copy of that,” Petyr added later, gruffly.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the near month-long hiatus. Freelance work poured in. And poured in some more.
> 
> But I'm back! And making up for lost time, apparently. Here it is! All my chapters are usually about 3,500 words. Guess I completely underestimated this time. 
> 
> As always, I really do love hearing from you.


	7. Horses for Courses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the previous chapter of Sabbatical... 
> 
> Sansa got a new wardrobe before Margaery abandoned shopping for Tywin and a posh French lunch... Sansa learns how to press for what she wants... Margaery finds out just how crazy-rich Crazy Rich Tywin is... and Petyr and Sansa take a snapshot together. 
> 
> All caught up? Let's go!

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162326344@N04/40876375350/in/dateposted-public/)

 

> It was often said that the face of Sara Albrecht could launch a thousand ships just like Helen of Troy's. _Well then,_  thought Sara now, as she stood bracing herself against the rail on the deck of the _White Elsbeth_ , _where are her ships now?_
> 
> “Don’t look so sad, dear,” Mordane murmured gently into Sara’s ear, almost as if her old governess had heard her very thoughts. “I am sure that whatever awaits you in England will be much brighter than you think and feel right now, my child.”
> 
> “I hope so very much that you are right, Miss Mordane,” Sara sighed deeply and with much feeling. Privately, Sara had heard that all they had was cold and rain. But she did so want to be happy for everyone’s sake — for Miss Mordane, because she never wanted to disappoint her teacher and oldest friend. For Mama, because she was counting on her.
> 
> For what good were riches without a name, Mama would always say. And a _proper_ name at that, not just one that is shiny from little use and therefore common and vulgar. They came into money so recently, you see —only going back to when Papa’s papa had made them all wealthy through the railroads. And that was all well and good for everyone else who made their fortune in similar ways. But the Albrechts could always do better, and it was quite the done thing now to earn preeminence in New York society by simply marrying _well_.
> 
> And Sara, for better or worse, was the oldest and by far the prettiest of them all. 
> 
> Catherine Elvina Albrecht had considered it her crowning achievement when she engineered the meeting between her most saleable daughter and the indebted but rather handsomely titled Stanley Fitzwilliam-Baratheon, 4th Earl of Stormend, and _chatelain_ of Blackwater Palace. _What a horrible name for a home_ , Sara had thought when she first heard where she was to live. But that was the very least of her worries, as it turned out. For the Earl was at least one score and four years older than Miss Albrecht.
> 
> _He’s older than Papa,_ she had wept to herself that night. But Mama had been very insistent. This marriage will finally bring honour to the family. _Real_ honour and distinction, as was truly befitting of the Albrechts. 
> 
> Sara sighed, leaning her chin on her hands and staring out over the rail and into the bottomless waters, feeling most disconsolate. She would be alone—and she did not enjoy making friends. Most girls her age tended to be jealous and therefore quietly unkind, their prettiest smiles often hiding the sharpest of nettles. 
> 
> If only something — anything! — would happen to relieve her of the burden of marrying an old man situated halfway around the world! Oh Duty! And curse her wealth too, Sara thought darkly. For what maiden enjoyed being married for her penny and not her thoughts? 
> 
> “A penny for your thoughts?” she suddenly heard a gravelly baritone say and the echo of her very own whispered words almost made Sara cry out in surprise. She spun sharply on her heel then, only to find that the owner of her echo was standing far closer than she had anticipated. Sara felt herself lose her footing right then and before she could stop herself, her own hand reached out in instinct to brace her fall. 
> 
> She fell instead into the warm and ready embrace of a stranger.
> 
> It took only a moment before Sara Albrecht realised the impropriety of her stance. Her hand, on his chest. Her face almost against his neck, which was clean and smooth except for the short black beard on the pointy end of a thoughtful chin. She looked up to find a merry pair of eyes staring back at her, so very ~~green~~    ~~greyish-green~~   ~~greeny-grey~~

_Good heavens,_ thought Sansa, stealing a glance at her locked door as if she could summon the answer just by looking in the general direction of where her oblivious muse might be.  

What _are_ the colour of his eyes, anyway? And Sansa dropped her pen to tilt back in her chair until she was balancing on just two of its legs. She closed her own eyes and thought back once again to yesterday. At lunch, they had looked quite dark because of the mood-lighting. But then out on the streets, they had been the brightest green. Especially when he laughed.  

She really did enjoy making Petyr laugh. It always felt like a small but satisfying achievement unlocked.  

But then she’d catch him looking at her sometimes, and the last thing she'd feel like doing then was giggle. His eyes were not so green then.  

 

 

> She looked up to find an intelligent, piercing pair of eyes staring back at her, their shade the very essence of a dark and stormy green sea.

* * *

_We’re going to the beach, he said. Don’t wear heels, he said._

Margaery wasn’t sure if she was being ambushed or if it honestly never crosses Tywin’s mind that a girl needs to prepare herself for these sorts of things. They were at the beach, alright. Along with a few hundred other spectators and… horses. 

The Singapore Polo Club’s inaugural beach championship had all the appearances of a laid-back Saturday afternoon ‘do' that the club had thrown together on a whim for the island’s  _beau monde_. The vibe was convivial, the accents cultured and international, and the alcohol free-flowing—at least in their VIP marquee. Tywin’s driver had driven across local waters to an even tinier island not a kilometre away from the mainland in search of this bit of fun. _Sentosa Island_ was a definite tourist trap in many ways, parts of it dwarfed by sky-scraping hotels and manmade attractions teeming with visitors and locals alike. And yet eventually their car had pulled away from the crowds to another side of the island where this perfect snatch of tropical island paradise lay.  

_Tanjong Beach_ , in contrast, was soft and white and pristine. (“Sand brought in from Indonesia,” Tywin had supplied deflatingly.) Statuesque coconut trees lined the sun-soaked stretch of sand as they swayed softly in the breeze while the waves nudged the shore gently before them, the waters green and calm. The beach had obviously been closed off to the public today and cordoned off to create a makeshift polo pitch. Margaery watched as the teams with their horses stood nearby their tent. She was staring at them now as Tywin came up behind her and began to explain. 

"The rules for beach polo are a little different, but essentially you have three players a team. There are four chukkas, which is a period of play in polo. Each chukka is six and a half minutes long except for the last, which is dead on six. They switch sides after each chukka, and ponies after two.” 

“How do you win?” 

“By getting as many goals within those posts. But in beach polo, there’s no real boundary for the pitch. The ball is technically always in play. It’s a simple game — fast, gallant, and pumps the blood when you’re on the animal. Far less exciting when you're watching." 

“Do you play?” she asked, leaning back into him and stretching her neck so she could look into his face. Without her heels, she was hopelessly tiny against him now. She tried not to squirm like a little girl.  

“I used to,” he replied. “I still do now and then." And immediately Margaery pictured him on horseback. _Gawd, but wouldn't he cut a seriously sexy figure!_ She could really see it, him in proper riding clothes, tight jodphurs, the works. And that imperious don’t-fuck-with-me stare as he takes the whatever-you-call-it-club-hammer-thing and effortlessly swings and thwacks the ball across the sand or field while in mid-gallop… 

Now she _did_ squirm. Thank goodness she had had the presence of mind to err on the side of caution and modesty. “Beach” had immediately conjured all manner of hardly-there clothing, of which Margaery had quite the collection. Whether it was her natural intuition or an increasing ability to read the man, Margaery had instead thrown on a royal-blue sundress that she knew would cling in all the right places. Her sandals had a slight wedge heel in cork that happened to match her wide-brimmed floppy hat. To her immense satisfaction, Tywin was dressed as her complement in tan shoes, beige slacks and a navy shirt unbuttoned with the sleeves rolled up. He was even wearing a white Panama hat with a broad navy band. It was the most casual she’d ever seen him. Not counting private moments in various states of undress, of course. 

She wanted to maul him. Even in this oppressive heat.  

Except they weren’t alone. Far from it, really. Tywin cut an impressive figure wherever he went and right now, he seemed to be drawing attention to himself whether he knew it or not. Or cared. And it wasn’t just him they were staring at, of course. They were looking at them both, the way he’s murmuring into her ear, the way she’s leaning back into his chest, head tilting up — all the better to hear him, of course. Tywin’s hands are nowhere near her waist but he could have been fondling her boobs, for all the difference in slack-jawed staring it would make. 

People were assessing them. And she did not like the conclusions many of them seemed to be drawing about her person. About the both of them. 

On the one hand, Margaery thought, _fuck’em._ She’s on holiday. No one knew who she was, so why the hell should it matter. 

On the other hand, she wondered what they must all think of _him_. Was that pity she saw? Outrage? Disgust? None of that made her happy at all.  

* * *

This time, Sansa descended the stairs in a long, earth-toned linen wrap dress, cinched at her already tiny waist by a patterned kimono-style silk belt. She wore her hair in a simple, sleek up-do and Petyr had to close his fist in the one hand while the other desperately ran his fingers through his hair. He wanted nothing more now than to reach over and tug at that delicious knot, watch the silk slip through the loop, the linen fall and gape open just wide enough for him to snake an arm inside and pull her to him and…

_Godssssssss…_

How the _hell_ was he going to manage the rest of the afternoon in her presence while hiding a raging hard-on that would come and go and come and go but never disappear? He’d given up on boxers. Too fucking _roomy._   

Wrap dresses and Sansa Stark. His bloody kryptonite.  

“Oh wow!” she smiled as she opened her hand and gestured at what he was wearing. Petyr shrugged even though he was pleased. Lately, he’d been rather partial to linen himself — modern mandarin collars and form-fitting cuts that looked better tucked out yet were not so sloppy that he couldn’t take a beautiful woman out to a nice establishment. Today, he rather favoured a crisp white shirt over a smart pair of mushroom-coloured slacks. If he needed to dress it up more, there was always the thin navy blazer in the car. But it was almost noon now, and the sun was at its most merciless. 

“I like your shirt,” she admitted now and reached over tentatively to touch the mandarin collar sitting flush against his throat. He willed himself not to swallow. 

“Have to keep up,” he teased gently instead, letting his eyes roam her body to drive his point home. “Like a proper lady,” he pronounced. “I heartily approve.” 

She blushed, as he knew she would. “I wanted to make an effort,” she explained, determination scrunching her nose. “Harrold’s new woman is all sophisticated, isn’t she? So I thought I’d try… you know...” 

“You look very elegant,” he reassured her, and lifted her hand to his lips to kiss it playfully. It worked: she relaxed right then and laughed at his show of mock chivalry.  

“Shall we?” he proffered his arm, and she took it. In those heels, she was at least an inch taller than him now.  

“Where are we going? she asked. 

“To test your new exacting standards at lunch.” He knew _just_ the place.  

* * *

_Interesting,_ thought Tywin to himself.

Tywin nodded along, keeping one ear to semiconductors mogul Mr Raymond Khoo’s impassioned theories about this morning's freak rise in the Nikkei, while training both his piercing eyes on Alayne. 

_Interesting._

Even across the marquee, Tywin could tell that she was not comfortable — not like she usually was. The Alayne he’d come to know that could walk bold as brass into any new adventure with all the aplomb, self-assurance and inimitable _sass_ that he’d come so much to enjoy… all that seemed muted now. She was not comfortable. 

It wasn’t the Polo, he knew. She was fascinated by the game and couldn’t wait to meet the players after. It wasn’t the crowd itself either; there was enough variance in the guest list so she wouldn’t stick out like a bird of paradise among a sea of turtles. 

He grimaced. It was _them_ , he realised. Or more correctly, how everyone else was probably judging the both of them whenever they stood together.  

He’d never bothered to mask his age, of course. Ridiculous. He had nothing to be ashamed of. He had decades — _decades_ of life experience and within all that time, he had built an empire far greater than even the most flamboyant estimates had claimed. He didn't care what the flotsam and jetsam thought of his life choices now — why the hell should he.  

_And yet…_

Alayne was a mystery. And her reaction was something he had not anticipated. Perhaps he had grown far too used to the women who knew who and what he and his reported net worth was. Who cared about these sorts of things. Those women had traditionally been only too glad to be seen on his arm in public. Almost hopeful that the local pap would steal a snapshot or two.  

Standing now in the VIP marquee at a private event where half the tent knew him well enough to introduce themselves to Alayne, she — he snorted now in disbelief — was instead  _mortified_  by it all. 

And Tywin had never been an unwitting cause of a woman’s discomfort because of his fucking _age_ before. It was not hubris to say so, to know so. It just was. He’d been the king of whatever room he’d walked into for most of his life, women practically throwing themselves in his way. And yet this twenty-something-year-old Twinkie, this pocket rocket just waltzed in with her selective snobbery and her exuberance for life and her blithe sense of entitlement… and now she had the temerity to 'feel all weird' about being seen in public with _him?_

Alayne clearly wasn’t with him for the borrowed prestige and the hope of a free ride, that was for sure.  

Tywin didn’t know whether to laugh or scorch the earth for the insult. 

* * *

In its heyday, the Creffield Park Hotel was renowned the island over for its exquisite lunches and high teas. For decades, Petyr was told, local celebrities and Old Money would gather in this historic hotel, with its polished gold bannisters and 1940s glamour, to be seen while they lunched.

But that was thirty years ago. 

Today, the Creffield stubbornly clings to its old ways while trying its darnedest still to bask in the afterglow of its yesteryears. The hotel had not won any awards since 1987, and like Miss Havisham herself, remained near frozen in time. It was clean enough. Still qualified for the five-star rating. Little old Chinese and Eurasian ladies still came and went, as did a fairly elderly crowd of European travellers who would get ferried in and out by the air-conditioned busload. Creffield Park was an institution, though perhaps one that affected more airs and graces than it deserved. 

All that would have mostly been quaint and forgivable except for the unmitigated snobbery and rudeness that the staff had grown notorious for. Especially when it was directed to patrons who did not quite fit into their usual target demographic. 

Enter Sansa Stark with Petyr. 

Petyr had tossed his keys at the waiting valet out front before beating the doorman to the punch when he smoothly returned to open Sansa’s door and let her out. That habit alone had taken several goes before Sansa remembered not to help herself out of the car ‘like a normal woman’, she’d pointed out, ‘with working limbs’.  

“It’s so inconvenient for you when I can just do this!” (Open door.)  

And Petyr had to explain patiently how women like Harrold’s bitch were also perfectly capable of letting themselves out of cars, of course. But they didn’t. Because they were royalty, and expected to be treated thus.  

If Sansa were to have any hope of making Harrold come to heel, she had to learn to make him her bitch.  

Besides, Petyr mused now as one long golden leg peeped out and then another, he rather loved the view. He grinned as he proffered his hand and waited as she took it. 

“You look very beautiful,” he reminded again, “but this hotel rather likes its guests to behave a certain way.” 

“A certain way?” Sansa clarified, suddenly nervous. 

He smiled reassuringly. “Just… smile less. Better yet, don’t smile at all.” 

“Not even to laugh?” 

“We don’t laugh here, at the Creffield,” Petyr grinned and Sansa furrowed her brow in mild consternation, unsure if he was teasing her now.  

“Just… don’t fidget. Keep your head high, your gaze straight. No eye contact with staff… too friendly.” 

She bumped against a bellhop just then, and immediately dropped her gaze to apologise profusely, a fingertip reaching out in reflex to touch the bellhop’s arm and ask if he was alright. Petyr breathed and tried again, this time taking her hand and tucking it firmly in the crook of his arm. 

“Sansa,” he murmured so she had to incline her head towards him to hear. “You have to pretend to be an utter posh snob now. The Help is invisible. Can you do it, you think?” 

“Don’t fidget, head up, gaze straight, no eye contact.” She smiled brilliantly at the recitation before her face fell. “And… no smiling.” 

“No smiling.” _God._

* * *

In the end, Sansa had ordered the grilled fish while Petyr opted for a local favourite — prawn noodles, with a soup base made from prawn stock topped with leafy greens, king prawns, and slices of fish cake. 

“This is lovely,” Sansa smiled softly, peeking out the window beside them into the landscaped courtyard. It was far too hot and humid now to have their lunch _al fresco_ like the sweating tourists outside were determined to do at present. Petyr leaned back into his chair and stretched his legs, looking at Sansa thoughtfully before he asked, “Do you do this sort of thing much, going out for lunch somewhere nice with Harry?” 

And Sansa shook her head. “Not really. Not for lunch. And even with dinner, it's usually my idea. Like, if we're celebrating an anniversary. Or a birthday.” 

Petyr raised an eyebrow. “Birthdays? Even yours? _You_ organise it?” 

“Uh… I guess we both try to, but Harry gets busy and, you know, it just gets easier over the years if I find a nice restaurant and make the reservations. After all, I’m at home all day.” 

“You _work_ from home all day. You write for a living.” He shrugged, even though he was privately getting shitty at Harry. ”You’re still at work. You’re busy." 

“It’s nothing,” Sansa insisted, shaking her head. “We’re not big on celebrations.” She glanced away then. 

And he wanted to grab her shoulders then and shake her gently. _YOU love big celebrations. YOU love being made a fuss of. And you deserve the very grandest, sweetest, loveliest things…_ Petyr ran his hand through his hair, literally biting his tongue.  

_Fucking lazy ungrateful composting goatfucking shit-eating assholic fuckta—_

“I’d like to pay for lunch today, Petyr.” And those sapphire-blue eyes bore into his right now. “I mean it. You paid for almost everything yesterday. Let this lunch be my treat… please?” She reached over now and squeezed his hand lightly. “Promise me you won’t fight with me over the bill.” 

Petyr faltered before he thought better of it. He’ll make it up to her in other ways.  

“Oh alright,” he smiled and watched as she smiled back, before flicking her gaze outside to the courtyard again. 

Their lunch arrived just then. 

Petyr could tell that all wasn’t right with Sansa’s dish, just by the way she was cutting around the fish. 

“Everything alright, Sansa?” 

“Um… I’ll be fine. But what’s wrong with your noodles? There’s no prawns in it! Isn’t it supposed to be prawn noodles? And not just noodles?” 

Petyr lifted a fuck-tonne of tangled egg noodles with his spoon and chopsticks.  

“There’s prawns, alright. Two of them.” 

“They’re tiny!” Sansa exclaimed, before looking up to stare at him, rather appalled. “Oh Petyr!” 

“It’s alright — I’m more concerned about you. What’s wrong with your fish?" 

“Well… it’s just… it tastes quite _fishy._ " 

He leaned over then and cut a small morsel, taking a nibble gingerly before retrieving his napkin to spit out the remains. She was right. This fish needed to be retired a day ago. 

Her masterclass was about to begin. 

“What do you think you should do now?” And he dared her with his eyes.  

“Call the waiter?” 

“And then what will you do.” 

“Tell him or her to take it back?” 

“And to bring you a fresh one as soon as possible. We’ve both waited long enough. This is a five-star hotel, purportedly. This is dreadfully disappointing.” 

He leaned back in his chair, his own sorry lunch already forgotten. 

The waiter came as soon as he was called, and to her credit, Sansa did not smile.  

“This fish is not fresh, I’m afraid. Could you see what you can do, perhaps?” 

And after a curt nod, the fish was taken away. 

“Well… that wasn’t too painful!” And Sansa smiled in relief. 

Petyr smoothed a grin. There was a reason he had chosen this restaurant, and not the bistro across the way.  

* * *

“I don’t understand!”

“Chef says,” the waiter patiently explained again as if Sansa were hard of hearing, “that the fish is supposed to taste like this. It’s a local fish.” 

Sansa worked her bottom lip with her teeth. 

“Um… I love fish, and I eat a lot of it… and I can tell you this isn’t because of its natural taste. This fish is old.” 

And the waiter bristled. “Perhaps madam would like some lemon butter on top? You may not be used to our local fish.” 

_Madam?_ Petyr pinched his lip at the annoyance that flashed across Sansa’s face. He couldn’t blink.  

“Butter is not going to help, I’m afraid,” Sansa tried again, flashing a quick smile that did not touch her eyes this time.  

“Then perhaps something more to your taste, madam. Tomato ketchup?” And at that, Sansa felt the barb even as the waiter’s face remained impassive. 

Showtime. 

“Has Chef actually tasted my fish yet?” asked Sansa sweetly. 

“I don’t know what Chef does inside the kitchen.” 

“Could you please ask your chef to taste my fish?” And Sansa blinked at her waiter slowly. “I’d _really_ like him to try.” 

The waiter made to take the fish back into the kitchen, but Sansa stayed his hand.  

“I’d like him to come out here to try, please.” 

“Chef is busy… he’s got—“ 

“I’ll wait.” 

_Excellent_ , Petyr thought.  

They waited until their waiter left for the kitchen _sans_ fish, muttering under his breath. 

“What did he say?” Sansa demanded to know and Petyr laughed. 

“What did you think he said?” 

And Sansa leaned back heavily in her chair. “I may have lost my temper a little, back there.” 

“Good.” Petyr smirked. “I like Fiesty Sansa.” 

And he watched as she flushed slightly. “Don’t make fun of me.” 

“I wouldn’t.” He leaned forward and gave her hand a quick squeeze. “I’m not.” 

Chef turned out to be a rather tall and skinny man answering to the name of Ravi. 

“HowcanIhelpyou.” 

“I don’t mean to be a bother, honestly…” and Petyr grimaced. _Easy, girl. Don’t lose your ground._ “But I believe you and your colleague think this fish is fine and that my tastebuds are not used to your local catch. I’d like you to have a taste and judge for yourself.” 

“Oh don’t worry ma’am, I already had a taste.”

“You have?” Sansa looked sceptical as she stared at her fish. It looked exactly the same as when she left it.  

“It is the fish, ma’am.” 

“Yes,” Sansa replied, struggling to tamp down her exasperation. “It’s off!” 

“No ma’am, it’s just the taste. The natural taste.” 

Something flashed in Sansa’s eyes just then and Petyr watched as she set her knife and fork back down on the table, as her lips pressed into a thin line like she was holding back from screaming. 

Her next words caught him off guard, however. 

“Then what about his prawns?” 

“Madam?” 

“His prawns. My friend's prawn noodles? Your menu promised him juicy king prawns. But it’s mostly noodles instead… and bean sprouts… some slices of fish cake, I suppose… and _two prawns!_ ” 

“Perhaps sir has—“ 

“No, he has not eaten anything!" pre-empted Sansa, her eyes narrowing. "We looked, and there are only two prawns! Two little miserable prawns!” 

“Ma’am, please don’t shout, ok ma’am?” 

“Shout?” Sansa stared at the chef incredulously. _“Shout?”_

Sansa Stark pushed her chair back from the table then and stood up, drawing her shoulders back. Her eyes were narrowed and blazing, her cheeks were flushed, and a lock of hair had come loose now and was curling about her face prettily. But her mouth was set in an obstinate line and the next words were the coldest he’d ever heard fall from her lips. 

“Who is your manager.” 

* * *

“So how did both of you meet?”

And this time, Margaery was sure to swallow her drink first before turning around warily to eye the lady before her who had introduced herself as simply “Meng”. A pattern was starting to emerge here, Margaery realised now. Women, usually a good two decades older than her, had been sidling up and introducing themselves in the last half hour. Some of them would use their full names and look at Margaery as if she should be impressed. (She wasn’t. She was hardly across the who’s who of the local jet set. And when Margaery was bored or drinking or — in this case — _both_ , she also had a memory of a goldfish.) 

And then there were those like Meng over here who would saunter over sporting a bored, aristocratic air that barely concealed the teeming curiosity and resentment underneath. Women like Meng were overly familiar and tended to act especially territorial, which only made Margaery picture her naked and fucking Tywin.  

_Ugh._

“Mmm?” Margaery smiled sweetly instead.  

“How did both of you meet? Ty's never mentioned you before. Alayne, was it?” 

Ty. Margaery wrinkled her nose, the temptation to snort in derision narrowly avoided.   

“Ohh… cute story, really.” And Margaery grinned now. In the last three rounds she’d gotten rather good at embellishing.  

Why let the truth get in the way of a rather good story, after all. 

“We met in Tahiti,” Margaery decided this time. “I was a traditional Tahitian dance instructor. We met at a luau and bonded over Mai Tais. He told me my dancing hips mesmerise him. I thought he was sweet.” 

Meng raised her eyebrows and looked like she didn’t believe Margaery for a second. Margaery grinned and raised her glass to her lips in return. 

It was reckless, she knew. Those women probably gossiped the moment they excused themselves to scurry off and huddle with the others. So far, Margaery had been an air stewardess, a professional bungee jumper, and a psychic. 

They knew she was lying, of course. Her accent was a dead giveaway, for one thing. And maybe she was being rather childish about it all but in truth, Margaery was growing pretty annoyed with _Ty_. It was bad enough that she had been blindsided by the beach thing. Even worse to be suddenly exposed to his social network as his affair of the hour. But to throw her into this horribly pretentious milieu and then bloody walk away and leave her alone to fend off these bloodhounds?  

She knocked back her drink. _She’ll show him._

Three more ladies had wandered into their conversation now, their curiosity of Meng’s inquisition clearly piqued. “Did you know much about him when you met over Mai Tais?” Meng was asking now, her tone friendly and nonchalant, her almond eyes anything but.  

Margaery shook her head until her curls bobbed. “Nope.” 

“You just met.” 

“We did.” 

“And then he brought you back here.” 

“Yup.”  

“Have you learned much about Tywin since you arrived?” Meng asked silkily now and Margaery could read only too well the hostility underneath. 

She shrugged. “He’s rich?” 

And the ladies looked at each other before throwing their heads back to laugh.  

“ _Rich_ hardly describes it, sweetie,” supplies one of them now. "See that man he’s talking to? That’s the retired Minister for Trade and Industry. Just before, one of the minor sultan’s wives was talking him into a deal with her daughter.” 

“A deal?” 

“Marriage, darling,” Meng cut in smoothly. "Tywin’s ancient, but he’s been the most elusive bachelor for decades. If that sultan’s wife had her way, she’d jump him ten times over by now. Tywin Lannister, _sweetheart_ , is one of the country's puppet masters. And almost every eligible woman in this tent has had their designs on him since forever.” 

“Designs?” Margaery feigned confusion. 

“Marriage, darling.” Meng repeated. “Are you paying attention?” 

“You mean… you want to marry him?” And Margaery shaped her mouth into a fascinated O. “Like, _seriously?_ ” 

Meng’s face twisted down in open hostility now. “You can cut the crap, honey. We all know you’re not as dumb as you look. But if you think you can waltz in here with your fucking Millennial cutesy talk and your perky tits and think he’ll marry you, then you’re out of your depth. Ty will never fall for a cheap act like you.” 

And now it was Margaery’s turn to throw back her head and laugh. 

“What’s so funny!” 

“I’m not trying to _marry_ him,” she gasped. “Hell no! I’m just here for the sex.” 

She flagged a waiter down now and swopped her empty glass for a cocktail, waving him off with a saucy smile and a fifty slipped into his breast pocket. “For your trouble,” she grinned and blew him a kiss before turning to face her inquisitors. 

“Best lay I’ve had in ages, darlings. He’s a fucking rocket in the sack, excuse my French. We’re having fun now, that’s all.” She leaned over and patted Meng on her hand, stage whispering for all to hear: “You don’t have to worry about a _thing_. I’ll be gone before you know it.” 

Margaery turned back to the rest of the ladies, their jaws still hanging. “Hours”, she purred, her eyes narrowing catlike, a hint of teeth. She tapped the side of her nose then closed her eyes, mouthing the word silently again as if in mid-climax. 

_“Hours.”_

* * *

“I can’t believe I said all that.”

“You were brilliant, Sansa.” 

“I was mean.” 

“You were well within your rights.” 

“I could have handled that better.” Sansa looked at Petyr now, her face troubled. “I got angry.” 

He had driven them to Mount Faber, to the bistro at the top. In truth, Mount Faber was closer to a hill, reaching just over a hundred metres tall. But it had arguably the best damn view on the entire island nation, affording both air-conditioned comfort and half decent coffee.  

“Can I tell you a secret, Petyr?” 

And he faced her fully. “Of course,” he murmured.  

“It was such a relief to be angry. Just now. I think I rather… I think enjoyed it too much, actually.” 

And Petyr looked down at Sansa’s hands on the table. She was wearing her wedding ring still. Lately though, he noticed, she was starting to take it off as soon as she sat somewhere for any length of time. He’d watch her as she’d twist it off and play with it almost absently.  

She’d still remember to slip it back on at day’s end, however. 

He chose his next words carefully. 

“Did you feel that you took your anger out on the wait staff earlier? Is that what you’re saying?” 

And Sansa nodded slowly, guiltily. 

“Is this about your husband, you think?” 

And Sansa stiffened slightly before she nodded again glumly.  

“Are you angry with Harrold?” 

And Sansa turned sharply then to stare unseeingly at the view before them. It was just after three in the afternoon now, and while the breeze was nowhere as cool or as strong as it was in the evenings, there was just enough of it to take the edge off the sunny afternoon. She was hiding behind her oversized sunglasses now and Petyr longed to reach over and take them down just so he could read her eyes and know what she was truly thinking and feeling. 

She took in a ragged breath. And then the next words were spoken so low that Petyr almost missed them. 

“I’m so angry with Harry that I can hardly breathe, Petyr. Honestly, I could _kill_ him. And that scares me.” 

“Sweetling…” And he tipped her chin so she would look him in the eye.  

“ _Of course_ you’re angry with Harry. _Of course_ you want to kill him. Marge and I have been furious for ages. And we’ve been worried about you. It’s unnatural _not_ to be angry after what he’s done to you!” 

“My mother always brought me up to believe that anger was something that ladies of breeding don’t show. It’s a lack of self control.” She took another ragged breath before whispering again, “But god, _I’m so angry!_ ” 

And he surprised her now by suddenly barking a laugh. “I’m glad!” he grinned finally at her curious expression. “It’s good to know you're normal,” he teased and was satisfied when that pulled a small smile from her. 

“Sansa, that’s a healthy first step. And we’ll use it. You’ll see. You already saw how aggression can get results. Did you see yourself? Because I did. You were _stunning_. You stood tall just now. Your head was high. You took no prisoners back there. That stare that you gave the chef? And then that voice you used when you spoke to the general manager? Use it. All of it. When you walk into whatever room Harrold is in and face off with that bitch, I want to see that steel in you. That coolness. Do you understand, Sansa?” 

“But that’s not really me.” 

“No it isn’t,” Petyr agreed. “But it is you… for now. Listen…” And he leaned in confidentially now. “I know you’re upset with yourself for what happened back at Creffield Park. Confrontation is never easy. Conflict is hard, especially for a tender heart like yours. But you did well. And you have a presence.” 

He leaned back now, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Next objective… instead of trying to slink into every room you walk into, we’re going to work on you walking in and drawing the eye of every man in the room.” 

Sansa let out an involuntary _eep_. “Is that really necessary?” 

His grin grew wider. “Absolutely.” 

And he was going to enjoy that very much, Petyr thought.  

* * *

By the time the whitish-blonde, portly elderly woman sat next to Margaery, she was about to scream and call it a day. _Not another one,_ Margaery groaned inwardly. She was truly jack of it now. Tywin had kept his distance for the most part of the afternoon, perhaps mistaking her own sudden currency with the green-eyed female populace as something positive and not to be interrupted. _Surely there was public transport around here,_ Margaery thought wildly now. _Perhaps the restaurant could call a cab?_

“You’ve had a tedious afternoon,” the older woman spoke then without preamble. Margaery stared at her. She looked vaguely familiar somehow, and yet she was sure they’d never met before. Besides,  _surely_ her own memory wasn’t so bad that she’d actually forgotten someone she just met that day? Margaery frowned, trying to remember… 

“Tywin’s not what one would call a dull boy but unfortunately, when it comes to social niceties, he can be so stupid like a man.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“You’ve had a tedious afternoon,” the older woman repeated again, glancing at Margaery and then meaningfully back at the rest of the marquee. Margaery had finally escaped to the corner of the tent and sunk into the cushions in the corner seat, determined to sulk and disappear for the rest of the afternoon. She supposed she could have sought Tywin out, but she was honestly just livid with him at the moment. 

And now this little old lady had joined her anyway. Another inquisition. 

“You’ve made yourself quite the talk of the afternoon, young lady,” continued the older woman conversationally. “I daresay quite a few of them got their noses out of joint.” 

And Margaery sighed dramatically now. “Oh for fuck’s… For the last and final time, all of you can have him. Really. Just go. Take him. I’m not trying to step on toes. I’m not trying to cut in on some kind of decades-old invisible queue to be Tywin’s wife. I’m just a girl, at a beach, and yes — with a man old enough to be my grandfather, and all I really wanted to do was to watch a match or two. Which I’ve hardly had a chance to do since I got here!” She tried not to wail the last. Margaery rather liked horses. 

“Lovely speech, dear,” the older woman replied, sounding amused. “I’m Genna. Tywin’s sister.” 

_Oh god shit fuck no!_

“Don’t look so horrified,” Genna grinned now. “I rather enjoyed watching it all, frankly.” 

“Pardon?” 

And Genna looked at her with open curiosity now. “Was all that true? What you said? About you only using my brother for the sex?” 

And Margaery had the grace to blush then. _It sounds so much worse when a little old matronly lady says it,_ Margaery cringed. 

And then Genna Lannister threw her head back and roared with laughter. “When Roberta Pinto told me… And Meng’s face!” And Genna laughed again. 

“I’m glad someone’s getting some entertainment out of this,” replied Margaery rather sourly.  

“You’re right, of course,” Genna was grinning now. “It’s funny. But it also isn’t. Tell me. What’s really going on between you and Tywin?” 

And Margaery faltered then. Because she’s damned if she knew herself. 

“I only ask because he’s… changed,” Genna prodded gently now.  

“Changed how?” 

“Well for one thing,” Genna grimaced, “he’s smiling again. First time I caught him last week, I damn well nearly passed a kidney stone in fright.” 

* * *

“Did you tell someone that you sell crystals?”

Margaery tried not to sound sheepish. “I might have said something about owning a little shop that sold that sort of thing… why?” 

“That was Madam Hooi. Her husband runs the Narcotics unit in Singapore. That’s all,” drawled Tywin as Margaery paled. 

“Oh god… I meant the _actual_ crystals! Like, the kind to draw out your inner goddess. Fuck!” 

It had been one of her tall tales, possibly between the second and third drink. That waiter had really stuck around after she slipped him that fifty. _I’m a spiritual consultant!_ she had offered brightly, before frowning hard and touching the forehead of her inquisitor worriedly. _I recommend Shungite — an ancient crystal found in Russia. Place a piece next to your iPad or wear it on your body as an energetic shield..._

“You know that they execute drug traffickers here, don’t you.” 

_Fuuuuuuuck..._

A twitch in the corner of Tywin’s mouth. 

“I trust you had your fun,” he finally observed drily and Margaery stilled for a beat before she scowled and punched him.  

“That was needlessly cruel.” 

“And it would appear that you’re a pathological liar.” But Tywin didn’t look particularly put out. Margaery, however, was not about to let him off so easily. 

“So what was that? All those people? Are they, like, your friends?” 

And Tywin grimaced now. “I see them from time to time, yes.” 

“ _These_ are the people you hang out with? It was like diving into a snake pit!” And Margaery was staring at Tywin now with a mixture of horror, disbelief… and pity. 

“Isn’t there anyone real in that lot? Someone you could actually trust not to turn around and knife you in the back?” But even as the words left her own mouth, Margaery already guessed the answer.  

“I’ve never found the need,” Tywin answered blandly but Margaery thought she heard something else in that answer. Defensiveness, perhaps.  

“I’ll be frank, darling—that was bloody awful, back there. I didn’t enjoy myself all that much.” 

And Tywin's grimace deepened. In truth, he hadn’t either. And yet something had held him back. He had refused—he had willed himself not to go to her. They had arrived together, and everyone had known or at least guessed the nature of their relationship. 

But then he had left her to it, going off on his way. He had watched her, though. He had watched her for most of the afternoon, his eyes hooded, his mouth twisted down in disapproval. And yet he had not gone to her. 

He did not know how to explain himself. He was damned if he could adequately explain it to himself.  

Tywin leaned over to his driver and tapped the glass. “Take us to Mount Pleasant Road.” 

* * *

The Singapore Polo Club was located in the centre of the island on what Tywin assured her was quite a bit of prime land. They had twenty-five livery stables, two of which house Tywin’s Arab horses.

Margaery watched as Tywin approached both magnificent beasts now, one white as anything while the other was almost as black as night itself. They nickered as he drew close and Margaery watched as they lowered their heads and nuzzled against him softly, so very glad to see their owner and friend. He crooned in return, his voice low and comforting as he showered a patter of praise and endearment upon them. He scratched their ears fondly and Margaery drew a sharp breath as she watched Tywin’s face soften visibly. 

She was wrong. Tywin did have friends. Just not talking ones.  

“Meet Lightning here… and Thunder.” 

“Hello…”

And she waited until Lightning, the white one, lowered its head in curiosity towards her. She looked at Tywin as if for permission and he nodded slightly before she reached over and scratched behind Lightning’s ears. 

“Do you ride?” Tywin asked Margaery curiously, watching as Lightning basked in Margaery’s ministrations.  

“I used to…” 

He strode over then. “Let’s take Thunder for a ride." 

The moment he mounted Thunder… The moment he stared down at her from on high, his mien regal, patrician, and impossibly handsome… Margaery felt butterflies. Something clenched inside her sudden and hard. An impossible desire. An aching want that had surprisingly little to do with her pussy, throbbing though it may be… 

He helped pull her up as she climbed on and settled behind him, holding him loosely around the waist. 

“Keep your feet far forward as possible,” Tywin reminded her now before trotting Thunder out. 

“Are you ready?”   

* * *

They didn’t go far or fast, in the end. Margaery had never ridden bareback before — much less doubled as a pillion — and on hindsight, perhaps she shouldn’t have agreed. But that was the thing about Tywin. She hardly knew him still, and yet she trusted him to a frankly ridiculous degree. She never doubted for a moment that he'd keep her safe.

Tywin was a sure rider, his confidence in reading Thunder breathtaking in itself. Margaery rested her face on Tywin’s back, feeling the rumble of him as he narrated quietly about the grounds and the history of the club.  

Neither of them wanted to overtire their ride, and before long they were back at the stable again, Lightning whinnying softly for attention.  

“You abandoned me,” Margaery suddenly said. 

“I did.” 

“Why did you. Was it some sort of test?” 

And Tywin leaned against the post, his forehead creasing as he gave the question considerable thought. Had that been a test, he wondered now. Was it practically second nature, that he would kick the tyres, that he would want to test the sturdiness of this woman and her affection for him? 

And what did the afternoon prove? Apart from the fact that she had met his acquaintances and found them utterly lacking in charm and virtue. 

_Be careful, brother…_ Genna had warned him, right before they had left the beach. _She’s only supposed to be a holiday thing. Remember that._

“I thought I was ready to explain what it is that we are. I found I was not.” 

That was the closest thing to an apology that Margaery knew she was going to get. She’s also learnt one thing from Tywin. And that is the art of stating her desires rather than asking for permission. 

“Don’t abandon me like that again.” 

“I won’t.” 

She tip-toed now, winding her arms around his neck and pulling him down, down, down to her level. She closed her eyes and remembered the way the horses nickered, the way his countenance had softened. And then she kissed him, this impossibly proud and great man. She tilted her head and sighed into his mouth as his own lips parted, as they tasted one another. 

And then he was pulling her to him, his arms around her powerful and tight until she gasped, his hands clutching her dress until it rode up the back of her thighs, until she was almost indecent. 

The horses looked on curiously as the both of them sank slowly to the ground, as their lips, their tongues, their hands grew impatient. Tywin’s silent men discreetly walked away.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! Another longish chapter. Sorry it's taken me a lot longer again to produce this one. The trouble when I get distracted by writing prompts and freelance work that actually pays the bills...


	8. The Great Pretenders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the previous chapter of Sabbatical... 
> 
> Sansa starts her book and gets rather stuck on the exact shade of Petyr's eyes... Margaery goes to the beach and becomes a psychic, among other things... Sansa gets nasty over prawn noodles with no prawns and finally finds her temper only to lose it... and Margee and Tywin have a literal roll in the hay with thunder and lightning in the background. 
> 
> All caught up? Let's go!

 

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162326344@N04/41124683050/in/dateposted-public/)

> _Eventually, her eyes flickered open as the morning sun dappled across her face and started to pierce through her heavy-lidded eyes._
> 
> _Sara Albrecht sat up suddenly, the horrific events of the previous night now crowding her thoughts as she remembered the howl of the wind, the fury of the waves and their ship breaking apart…_
> 
> _A sob hitched in her throat anew and strangled it as she mourned her friend and tutor who must have certainly perished beneath the sea now calm and sparkling not a hundred handspans away, the hypocrite. Belatedly, she looked down to find herself stripped down to her underclothes, her new gown in rich olive green now bedraggled and stained, hanging pitifully overhead on a low branch — though less sodden than it had been before._
> 
> _A blush stole across her cheek as she came to notice the smart uniform coat still upon her person, the dark blue cloth stained by seawater. The heavy garment had preserved both her modesty and her health in the cool air overnight and she looked about her now to find its owner._
> 
> _There was no one about and short of standing uncertainly in the shade of the trees for the rest of the day, Sara willed herself to move. She shrugged the heavy navy coat over her shoulders, noting the damp and musk from the sea. Sara stepped out from the nest of trees and rocks, casting her eyes to the right of her as she squinted. And then again to her left before she finally saw the Captain, hauling something to the shore with all his strength._
> 
> _She pulled the coat tighter now and started towards him, her steps swift and urgent, her shoes filled with grit from the sand and the sea._
> 
> _And then she ground to a halt when he finally looked up. When their eyes met and she saw in his the White Elsbeth breaking apart, her own terrified screams as she felt the floor move from under her, as her half of the ship started to groan with a terrible groan, as the tip careened towards the treacherous, billowing sea. And how he, the captain of this broken lady, had run to her, forsaking all else, his green-grey eyes determined and petrified…_
> 
> _They stood now, a man and a woman unaccompanied. Alone, when all else was lost at sea._
> 
> _Sara pulled the navy coat tighter, her breasts pressed against her corset still damp and slightly cold from the wet. His eyes flicked down briefly before they darted back to her face. It was but a fraction of a moment, but she caught him anyway._
> 
> _She should leave, except there was nowhere to go. She should cover herself, except there was nothing to wear._
> 
> _She should not be alone with a man who was not her father, nor her brother. Except he was all she had now._
> 
> _Sara drew a shaky little breath. She should not be so very alone with this man._

* * *

It was just coming on midnight when Petyr heard both women, their voices carrying across the still of the night and into his bedroom. ’Twas a cooler than usual evening tonight, the result of a mostly overcast day without the mid-afternoon rain. Even without much of a breeze, Petyr had felt brave enough to turn the air-conditioning off this evening and with the ceiling fan set on low, he had opened his windows only to hear the chatter of the women from the other end of the house.

He stilled then. In all the weeks since the two young women had barrelled into his life, this was the first time Petyr could recall retiring to bed about the same time as his guests. Margaery was often staying somewhere else for one thing, and Sansa was mostly quiet in her room, the door closed after ten in the evening to write, the windows and curtains drawn as the air-conditioning came on in the swelter of the humid night. 

But like Petyr, she had thrown her windows open tonight and from what he could discern now, Margaery was settled in her room, eager for a chat. 

He slipped into his bed now, stripping down until he was just in his boxers. The soft, thin cotton top sheet barely covered his torso and he turned on his side now, ears peeled and listening intently. 

“… with Petyr? You’ve both been rather busy without me,” Margaery’s voice stole over now. Petyr could practically see the smirk on her face. 

“He’s been amazing, Margee. Just so patient with me. And funny! _And_ he’s been teaching me lots.” 

“I’ll bet.” 

Sansa laughed then, a sweet full laugh that made Petyr’s heart clench slightly once more. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s not like that at all!” 

“Isn’t it?” Pause. “I’ve never _ever_ seen him take the time like that with anyone else.” 

“Really?” And Margaery watched as a Sansa pulled her lower lip thoughtfully. “He’s a teacher now. He’s just used to teaching people, that’s all.” 

“If you say so…” And Margaery scrambled over the bed to help herself to Sansa’s body cream on the side table. She squeezed a liberal helping from the tube onto her right leg and started to work the moisturiser in. 

“So Petyr’s teaching you?” 

“Mm-hmm. How to come across more sophisticated-like. A bit more posh, like Harry’s woman.” 

“Do you think it’ll work?” And Sansa flushed just then, her teeth worrying her bottom lip more as she furrowed her brow and mulled over the question in earnest. 

“I don’t know,” she replied finally and sighed. “But I don’t have a choice, do I. I have to give this my best shot.” 

And Margaery chose to ignore that for now. “So you turn into this posh bitch wannabe or something, and you walk over to Harry, and then… what, darling?” And Margaery stopped working the cream into her leg as she gazed evenly at her friend. “Sansa honey… what if Harry chooses her anyway? You know that’s always a possibility, right?” 

And Sansa nodded, her eyes big and open and clear. 

“Alright then. And what will you do? If that happens?” 

“Should I try again?” 

And Margaery took a yoga breath to clear her head before she trusted herself enough to say, so very gently, “Sansa… when will you say that enough is enough?” 

“I can’t just walk away, Margee! This is my _marriage!_ ” The last word had come out in a high whisper so that Petyr almost missed it. 

“It is not the end of the world, Sans! Life goes on!” 

“I know it’s not… at least my brain keeps telling me that. But Margee, I made vows! And unlike what a lot of people think about matrimony nowadays, I really believe some things in life are _precious_ , are supposed to be _forever_. _I had given my word!_ What kind of person would I be if I give up so easily, Margee? What does that say about my love, m-my strength of character if I can’t stick it out for something as huge and important as a marriage? _I had given my word!_ ” 

Too late. The words were out before Sansa realised what she had just implied. Margaery’s eyes tightened now and there’s an audible gasp as Sansa’s hand flew to her mouth. 

“Oh Margee — I don’t mean _you_. Of course I don’t mean you! I was only talking about me!” Sansa leaned over now to grasp her friend’s limp hand and the latter visibly flinched. 

“Oh I’m so sorry!” cried Sansa. “I’m so thoughtless! _Please_ just forget what I said. What do I know — I’ve only ever had Harry… Margee, pleeeeeease forgive me! I wasn’t talking about your history…” 

There’s a long pause between and Petyr held his breath, wondering if Margaery would beg off and leave the room. He waited and eventually he heard her voice, low and serious now. 

“You’re right, you know.” And Margaery sighed. Her voice seemed to shift and sound closer. Perhaps she had moved to the window. 

“What am I, almost twenty-eight? And already divorced three times. Well — one was technically an annulment, it was so short.” And Margaery gave a tinkling little laugh that sounded hollow and even a little ashamed. She gave a little wave of her fingers now, as if brushing away a wisp of fluff in the gentle night breeze. 

“None of that for me anymore. Got my money. Got my freedom.” The words came easily to her, but they felt oddly like a bit of a lie... 

“And what about Mr T?” 

“What _about_ Mr T?” Margaery turned to face her friend, her mouth twisted to the side. “It’s just fun. Something to do while I’m bored.” 

“Am I so boring?” Sansa teased. But she knew to press further now, especially as how a shadow had flitted across Margaery’s face and she had turned almost immediately to face out the window again. 

“Come on, Margee… I know you wouldn’t be this neglectful of me if this guy didn’t mean at least something to you!”  

And Margaery snorted. “Chicks before Dicks, darling. I didn’t neglect you. I left you with Petyr, didn’t I? ” 

“Margee…” 

"He’s got more tricks up his sleeve than a sixty-dollar magician at a children’s birthday party. You don’t need me.” 

“Mar~geee…” Sansa was starting to sing now. “You’re avoiding the real ques~tion…” 

“I’m not.” 

“You like this Mr T!” 

“Only because he makes me come faster than a fat kid after an ice-cream truck.” 

“Margee!” And Sansa threw back her head and laughed. 

“I’m serious! We’re fucking like rabbits.” 

“Stop it!” 

“I’m exhausted. But what a workout! My pelvic floor muscles can hold my pee for a week now.” 

“MARGEE!” And Sansa gave a little high-pitched squeal as she swiped the nearest pillow and buried her face in it. Margaery looked on smugly, satisfied that the topic had now most definitely shifted from dwelling on what the hell she thought Tywin meant to her. 

_The hell she knows!_ thought Margaery, even as she remembered the way his eyes had skewered her own so intensely that her heart started to race as though it might burst right out of her skin. And that was right before his mouth devoured her own as he came noisily, a groan so intimate, so carnal...  

_Don’t go there._

And then— 

“What’s it like?” A small voice. 

“What, darling?” 

“What’s it like… you know…” And Petyr had to really, really strain his ears now, edging closer to the window. 

“What’s what like.” 

And Sansa took a deep breath. “Coming,” she said. “What’s it like to… climax.” 

And both Petyr and Margaery’s jaws dropped open. 

“You mean you don’t know?” 

“I didn’t say that!” Sansa replied hurriedly, a tad defensive.  

“Then why are you asking?” 

“I just wanted to check that I’ve had one before, that’s all.” 

Margaery tried her darnedest not to let the pity seep into her eyes now. She tried and she failed, because Sansa flinched before she flushed bright pink. 

“Oh honey,” Margaery sighed gently, sitting down now on the edge of the bed as if she were about to tell Sansa she had mere weeks to live. “If you have to ask… it probably means you haven’t.” 

“I haven’t?” 

“No you haven’t. You’re practically a virgin.” 

“Huh.” There’s a pregnant pause and Petyr’s about to fall off his bed now as he strained against the sheets, dying to catch the next words. 

“Does this mean I can get an annulment if this all goes tits up?” And both women were laughing now even as Petyr slowly sank deep into his bed, his hand instinctively reaching down to palm a burgeoning hard-on. 

_Oh the things he could teach her!_  he groaned softly into his pillow before biting it. 

* * *

They had a couple hours to kill before dinner and true to form, Margaery was nowhere to be seen, having nicked off as early as eight this morning just as Sansa was all wonderfully sweaty from finishing up on her yoga and Petyr had descended the stairs, pretending to have just woken up himself instead of only just perving out his bedroom window.

The Singapore Botanic Gardens was a hundred-sixty-year-old dame with a surprisingly massive footprint for so tiny an island. She was lauded the world over for her sheer beauty for she really was quite a stunner, and Petyr wondered if they could perhaps chance upon a delight while they were there — a jazz performance, maybe. Petyr directed Sansa towards the entrance at Tanglin Gate. 

He watched her carefully as she took in her surrounds now, her jaw slightly slackened, her eyes shining like a little girl's. It was crowded today, the islanders making the most of the precious weekend and the even rarer cool weather. They walked in silence for a good quarter of an hour, taking in the lush, orderly greenery against which pops of colour littered their walks, exotic creepers curling ornamentally around fern-covered vertical walls lining the way **.** Some of the trees were impossibly tall and looked even older than the gardens themselves. This was indeed a Pleasure Garden and Petyr walked along slightly behind Sansa as he quietly soaked in her enjoyment, revelling in the way she was utterly entranced and that the smiles on her naked lips this afternoon were entirely his doing. 

She actually forgot about Harry today. She hadn’t meant to, of course. But as the sunny days passed and she settled into her new routine, Sansa found herself missing him less and less as she found herself more and more. 

And then there was Petyr. 

He had this way of making her feel precious. Valued. Almost coddled. She couldn’t quite place how, whether it was the way he inclined his head towards her own when he spoke to her — always softly so she had to tilt her ear towards him. Or maybe it was the almost unconscious attention to detail — the natural way she’d find him walking curbside so she was away from the busy roads. Or how his arm would dart out instinctively in front of her whenever he had to brake suddenly because an idiot had cut him off in traffic. How he’d place his hand with casual possession on the back of her headrest whenever he reversed park — always so smoothly and with just one hand on the wheel.  

Tiny touches, tiny little things. But they never lingered. It was always on the right side of chivalry and nothing that should cause her alarm. So why did the back of her neck turn red at such odd times now and then? He’d open the door for her and guide her gently into a building by the small of her back before following two paces behind her, and her ears would burn for one, two seconds before settling down again.  

And then this. This landscaped gorgeousness, this purposeful, beautiful specimen of a tropical British colonial garden. If she didn’t know better, she’d think that this was… well… a _perfect_ location for a Saturday mid-afternoon date, really. 

“Look what we have here…” mused Petyr now, his mouth curving into wry amusement. 

“A wedding!” Sansa smiled. “Outdoors, but perfect weather for it today!” 

They gazed for a while at the long white marquee, at the well-dressed crowd as they mingled and danced in the waning afternoon to the strains of sexy schmexy jazz. An almost Western sight on an Eastern island. 

“Shall we?” And Petyr offered his arm. 

“You’re kidding me! We can’t possibly…” Sansa wanted to laugh even as she stared at his proffered arm and then back at the milling crowd. “Do you even know the couple?” 

“I don’t. Do you?” 

“Of course not!” she giggled in return. But Sansa was tempted now. She had never done anything like this before. Crash a wedding! While on holiday! And yet it seemed like such a perfectly fun thing to try and pull off now.  

“Is this part of my training?” 

“Let’s pretend that it is." 

“I’m not going to say anything,” she promised. 

“Come along, Sansa,” Petyr grinned as she slipped her cool hand into the crook of his arm. 

* * *

Sansa had swiped the first champagne flute for the dutch courage before realising how absolutely yummy six-hundred dollar champers could taste.

Now she’d just finished her second flute and was feeling positively _buoyant_. 

“Look out,” Petyr murmured in her ear now, and his breath tickled the shell of it so blood rushed up once more. “Your twelve o’clock. Someone coming over right now. Looks like she's going to interview you.” 

“ _Us,_ you mean!” Sansa grinned now. She bopped Petyr's nose playfully in accusation. “You’re not running away from this, mister! If I go down, you’re coming with me.” And as if to drive her point home, Sansa threaded her arm through his and clipped him to her side. 

The “interviewer" in question turned out to actually _be_ an interviewer. A journalist for the lifestyle section of The Straits Times, covering the grandest weddings on the island this month.  

“And what’s your name?” she was asking Petyr now. And before he could think to reply, Sansa butted in to brightly supply the answer.

“Lars.” 

“Lars? How do you spell that…” And Petyr raised an eyebrow as Sansa stifled yet another bubbles-induced giggle. Oh, but she was rather prone to be the Happy kind of drunk. She stared at his dark hair tempered by the growing fringe of silver about his ears and he looked like many things. Dark and quite handsome for sure, but hardly blonde and blue-eyed like a Lars… 

“And what about you, Miss…” 

“Kiko,” drawled Petyr, smiling lazily as Sansa choked on her drink.  

“Lars and Kiko… that’s interesting! Such a Japanese name!” commented the journalist with much interest, staring almost enviously at the cascade of fiery red hair against Sansa's pale porcelain complexion. 

“Why yes… no, actually. Um — maybe?” Sansa faltered as she scrambled to think and recover. “Kiko was a very popular name when I was born.” 

“And where were you born, Kiko?” 

“Scotland,” Petyr volunteered very seriously.  

The journalist’s gaze shifted uncertainly between the both of them and it took all of Sansa’s self control not to snort into her third glass. She chewed on her champagne-soaked strawberry thoughtfully instead, keeping her blue eyes wide and innocent. 

“Can I take a photo of the both of you?” 

And before Sansa could think, the happy snap was taken before the journalist scurried away to find her next photo opp. 

“You’re terrible!” Petyr pronounced before poking Sansa gently in the side and then catching her as she dissolved predictably into another mess of stifled giggles.

_Oh dear_ , floated a tiny thought at the back of Sansa's head, _this won't do..._

“Enough of this one I think,” Petyr added gruffly, retrieving the flute and offloading it to a passing waiter. He felt the weight of her as she sagged against him for another five to seven seconds before pulling away. He was instantly bereft. 

“Oh no, another one!” Sansa cried softly. 

And this one turned out to be an actual relative of the couple. Miraculously, Lars held it together for them both as Aunty Lisa grilled them on how they know the newlyweds, what they thought about the speeches, and why they were so woefully underdressed for the occasion. (“My bad,” Kiko had explained rather meekly. “I saw ‘White’ and not ‘White tie’.”) 

“Wow.” Sansa pronounced when Aunty Lisa finally moved on to her next victims. 

“Come on,” Petyr grinned. “We’d better go. Although… “ he paused now, tipping his chin towards the welcome table ahead with two ushers still sitting there, looking bored. “There’s a guestbook over there.” 

“It’d be rude to leave without giving our best wishes, surely.” 

“Surely,” Petyr nodded solemnly. 

Sansa watched as Petyr scrawled both their names in broad, confident strokes as if he’d signed their names together forever. “Lars & Kiko”, and a tremendous flourish underneath. 

“Just gimme a minute more,” Sansa implored as she bent down now to print neatly in her own hand. Petyr looked over her shoulder and his eyes softened as he read her message. 

_ They say you become one flesh at “I do”  _

_ But I say it’s better that 1 and 1 make 2  _

His eyes flicked up to her face just then and she held his gaze evenly.  

“These past two weeks? I just… Thank you for helping me find my old self again, Petyr.”   

“I thought his name is Lars!” quipped one of the ushers, squinting at their autograph. 

“It is that, too!” laughed Sansa, slipping her hand into his on a whim and pulling him away from the table, from the crowds, from suspicious Aunty Lisa and the journalist who puzzled over their names. And then they were running across the grass as if someone were hot on their tail. And of course there was nothing of the sort. It was a wedding with hundreds after all. 

Sansa dropped Petyr's hand abruptly and he acted like nothing was amiss, like they didn’t just behave like a couple of silly teenagers. 

_I should not be so very alone with this man,_ thought Sansa suddenly. 

* * *

He was just folding back the papers when Margaery emerged from the showers in nothing but a robe, her hair piled up high in the hotel towel. Her face was scrubbed clean of make-up and it struck Tywin once more how very young she actually was and how very beautiful.

It didn’t use to be like this — _she_ didn’t use to be like this. Margaery used to flounce into the room in a cloud of her latest favourite perfume and wearing a tiny dress, her face perfectly done and lips painted even though she was just about to have breakfast.  

But this. Her in her most natural state, face stripped bare and vulnerable, every flaw, every freckle uncovered for him to stare at and memorise. This was relatively new.  

She wandered over now, padding softly in the bedroom slippers and helping herself to a croissant still warm from the in-house bakery downstairs. She pulled out the chair nearest to him and lined it beside his own before dropping into it heavily and snuggling into his side like a tabby as he opened his arm and welcomed her wordlessly. 

“Morning…” she mumbled and reached up to kiss his neck before she snuggled back down to read the papers with him. Silence as they flicked over the news, as he waited for her to finish before turning the page, the only sound in the room the ticking of the grandfather clock and the rustle of the papers in his hands. 

And he wondered for a fleeting moment what it must be like to have this every morning. He had enjoyed this sort of thing once, once upon an age ago… 

“I don’t normally bother with this trash,” he rumbled now, fishing out the Lifestyle segment. “But it was just as well that I thought to look through this one the other day as I thought this might happen.” 

And Margaery stiffened suddenly as she recognised the marquee, the artificially gorgeous white sand, the horses... and her hat. 

“You’re famous,” Tywin drawled without humour as Margaery stared at the photo, a relatively fuzzy one of the crowd. She’s standing in front of Tywin, her massive floppy hat just covering her face — thank God! — as his arm wrapped around her waist possessively. “Miss Alayne Stone with Sir Tywin Lannister”, the caption read. It had been such a private moment.

“This is why I don’t like having my picture taken. Do you want me to do anything?” And Margaery shook her head numbly, her mind reeling as she wondered what this might mean. Should she tell Sansa? Would she really need to? After all, her face can’t be seen and neither Petyr nor Sansa knew about the beach polo, since she hadn’t known herself until that hour.  

“ _Sir_ Tywin?” Margaery finally thought to ask sharply, twisting around to face the man who now rolled his eyes and huffed. 

* * *

“Do you think I’ll be ready soon?” Sansa finally asked after stirring her sweet tea. They were in the café on campus, downing a quick coffee and breakfast before his morning lecture. 

“I think you’re close,” Petyr agreed.  

“I’m not sure what the plan is, really… I mean, do I just rock up to Harry and… and then _what_ , exactly?” 

“And then you remind him exactly what he’s missing while giving him exactly what he’s asking for.” 

“I don’t understand.”  

And Petyr smiled even though there was very little humour in all this for him, really.  

“You will be all that you are except… _more_. Make him sit up and take notice of you. It will be like seeing you properly for the first time, almost. And just when he wants you… he cannot have you. You will break up with him.” 

“But that’s the total opposite of what I’m trying to do here! Break up with him?” 

And Petyr reached over to tap her hand softly. “Of course not. But men like Harry always want what they can’t have. If he thinks he’s about to lose you, if he thinks you’ve finally given up and are moving on, suddenly things get interesting again.” 

“You mean suddenly _I’m_ interesting again,” Sansa couldn’t help pointing out bitterly. 

“That is the game. That’s how I’m advising you to play it. And trust me… it will work. When you finally meet him and bedazzle him and he realises that he can’t have you anyway… he’ll come back.” 

A thick silence falls over them now, even in the bustle of the morning queue for coffee right behind them. Supposing it all worked and Harry returned to Sansa and they both swan back to Melbourne in a cloud of happily ever after… 

When she returns to Melbourne and becomes boring ol’ Sansa again… then what? 

“You are already changed, Sansa…” Petyr murmured now, as if hearing her exact thoughts, as if sensing her doubt. He reached over and squeezed her hand. “It’s better that one and one make two. Remember your own advice and be yourself — your whole self. And not his shadow. And you’ll see… things will improve.” 

Easy to sound confident. But Petyr had his doubts nevertheless, even as his face was a picture of friendly reassurance.  

But something else was churning within Sansa’s mind now and when she spoke, it was with a certain steel of determination even if the words came out soft and worded as a request. 

“Petyr…” she started now, flicking those blue eyes up to lock in with his. “About making Harry think he’s about to lose me… I’m wondering…” 

“I'm listening...” 

“How about you return a favour?” 

“Oh?” Petyr arched an eyebrow. “And which favour might that be?” 

“The one where I pretend to be your lady… except of course, I’m asking if _you_ would… you know… pretend to be my man.” 

And Petyr’s eyes glinted. 

_Finally. Fucking finally._ He thought she’d _never_ get there on her own, but she did. _Good girl._

But Petyr merely raised an eyebrow now as if contemplating the idea before his lips suddenly widened into a Cheshire-cat smile. 

“Anything to help, Sansa." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. My husband and I did get a bit Happy one wedding and sign off as Lars & Kiko in a guestbook. We were, however, actually invited guests to that wedding. It had seemed so hilarious at the time. We're still friends with the couple and see them every week. We've never told them and they still don't know. 
> 
> 2\. Fanfic smut — any smut — is always banging on about that perfect synchronised orgasm but can I just say that it's actually bloody hard to achieve that? I know this chapter talks about Margaery and Petyr's horrified reactions when they learn that Sansa has never had the big O. But in truth, squillions of women really don't, even with active sex lives. Go look up the stats. It's bloody depressing already. So no shame, alright? This chapter isn't about pointing and laughing at women who haven't or can't — for whatever reason. I ain't judging. 
> 
> 3\. Fun Fact: There are only three gardens in the world that are World Heritage listed by UNESCO and the Singapore Botanic Gardens is one of them. It is also the only tropical garden in the world to receive that honour.


	9. Gossiped Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the previous chapter of Sabbatical... 
> 
> Petyr eavesdrops on girl talk and bites a pillow... Margaery makes the news, sorta... Sansa becomes Scottish Japanese for a day at a wedding... and grows to realise that perhaps she should not be so alone with Petyr... and therefore asks him to pose as her new boyfriend because the girl cannot help herself. 
> 
> All caught up? Let's boogie!

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162326344@N04/28326391987/in/dateposted-public/)

> _“I beg your pardon, m’lady.”_
> 
> _She had crept back out to sit by the fire, finding sleep eluding her tonight after the excitement of the day. The crackling fire had cheered her immediately but it was only when she heard the Captain’s voice that her cheeks, her neck started to warm._
> 
> _She should not have turned, but oh! It would have been so rude to have kept her gaze fixed upon the dancing flames. And yet, at the sound of his low, welcome voice — and she was now fully acquainted with it, having heard its dulcet drops for nigh a fortnight, the very sound of surety and strength — she could not help but seek him out in the shadows, only to find him bared from trousers up, his suffering shirt now hung to dry on the lowest branch closest to the flames._
> 
> _The heat leapt from her neck and coloured the very roots of her hair. Sara was suddenly afflicted with a new shyness that at once induced her to draw the shawl around her shoulders tight, to wrap them firmly over her breasts so that the Captain could pay no heed to the way in which her heart, her breath had quickened._
> 
> _Oh but he was a fine specimen of a man, and his long silvery scar seemed to glint in the moonlight. Everything in her being desired that he should be as far away from her as possible, if only because she yearned most of all to be near him, to reach and trail a finger along his scar... He cannot help it, she berated herself. He has nowhere to go, and no clothes to wear, and would you begrudge the man who has been nothing but kindness to you..._
> 
> _“Please join me, Captain,” Sara invited instead, and when he settled beside her, a thrill ran down her spine so she shivered._
> 
> _“Are you cold, m’lady?” His mellifluous voice was concerned, and she turned now to look at him. He was close, so very close and she swallowed, words dying in her throat._
> 
> _“No,” she managed to whisper. He was but a heartbeat away._
> 
> _“And yet you shake and you quiver before me.”_
> 
> _“Do I?”_
> 
> _He stared at her now, and Sara forgot to breathe._
> 
> _“You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever beheld, Lady Albrecht.”_
> 
> _“Captain Creffi—“_
> 
> _“Call me Peter,” he said before he kissed her._

* * *

“What attracts you to a woman?” 

And it was just as well that Petyr had lifted the glass to his lips right then. He took a helluva long sip before swallowing slowly as he thought over what to say. _Sharpish red,_ he thought, pulling a face as the alcohol now burned a trail down his throat. 

“Depends who’s asking,” he finally answered, cocking an eyebrow and grinning a little impishly.  

Sansa smiled. 

“I feel like…” And she twirled her hands in the air, as if trying to conjure the very words and Petyr tried not to stare at her delicate wrists or blurt out corkers like, _Hands. I really, really like your hands. And that sensitive spot that I just know lives on the inside of that wrist..._

“I feel like… I need to take the next step, you know? I think I’m ready t-to…” And she touched her throat as she flushed before laughing self-consciously. “I think I’m ready to learn how to seduce a man.” A beat, before she thought to qualify. “Seduce my _husband_ ,” she underlined, as if he needed reminding.  

_Rub salt into an open wound, why don’t you._

“What do you want to know?” he asked instead.  

“Everything. What men look for.” 

“Most time, we’re happy if a nice-looking lady shows up and looks game, honestly.” 

“ _You_ don’t!” Sansa retorted then. “I’ve watched you. There’s not a single head that turns yours, Petyr. All these times we’ve hung out together, there’ve been so many women who’ve noticed you or been flirting to get your attention — even with me sitting right next to you — and… nothing!” 

He shrugged helplessly. “I’m a picky man.” And because he no longer cared to have Sansa pursue this line of questioning, he reached over and picked up her hand. 

“This…” he said, holding that sweet little wrist and absently brushing her pulse point once, twice with his thumb. She stilled and he pretended not to notice. “The waving,” he explained. “A woman who seduces with intent knows exactly where to place her hands. Hands,” he continued, bringing hers now to wrap around her glass flute, "when used properly, direct a man’s eye to the right places.” 

“H-hands?” Sansa stammered, slightly bewildered. “Not… you know…” And she yanked up her white lycra scoop-neck collar to cover more of her beautiful décolletage, even as the fabric slid back down to bare just the slightest hint of a modest cleavage. 

“There are women who will wear the skimpiest little things and they’ll get the fuck-me attention, alright. But your husband, I’m guessing, likes to think himself… ah… classier than that?” 

And Sansa thought about it earnestly. “I suppose. I guess… I’ve never given him that option. I don’t walk around the house dressed like a French maid or something… you know… _kinky_.” 

_Oh bless this little ewe lamb,_ Petyr wanted to groan. A French maid outfit hardly skimmed the depths of depravity that many men would happily sink to, Petyr was dying to say. All the same — the image of Sansa in a short little black flare dress with a sweet little frilly white apron and — god — _a_ _feather duster. With a thin wooden handle._ Petyr swallowed hard. 

“Don’t flit,” he now said, and his voice was low and gruff. “Poise is a lot about stillness. Seduction is about intensity. Look a man in the eye without feeling like you need to laugh or fill the silence with chatter. And in that space, that lack of movement and distraction… these hands will start to work magic. Try it.” 

“Like… now?” 

“Yes,” Petyr replied simply. They were both sitting on bar stools in the corner of a local watering hole not unlike the one he had first found Harry in. “Pretend you’ve just met me. We’re two strangers having a drink side by side. I notice you…” And Petyr allowed his eyes to rove over Sansa appreciatively, inducing another self-conscious laugh. “And you… have just noticed me. What do you do?” 

“I ask what you do.” 

“Pretend we’ve done all that. The small talk. We’ve done the weather, the jobs, the purpose of our visit to sunny Singapore. Now what.” 

“I just stare at you?” 

“We’re both thinking that there might be a spark.” 

“A spark?” Faintly. 

“Yes, a spark. There's a natural lull in conversation now. Neither of us is sure if the other wants a roll under the hotel sheets, you see. So… tell me.” And Petyr's voice had grown soft now and taken on a rather velvet quality. “How would you tell me you’re interested without actually _saying_ you’re interested?” 

He leaned a little forward now and Sansa mirrored him. She wasn’t crass enough to hunch her shoulders in to deepen her cleavage, and Petyr approved. Some women do that well, but Petyr had always liked the chase and the squeezing of the boobies was far too overt and philistine, just privately. 

She stared into his eyes now, unblinking. Still. A small challenge in her eye and something else… a vivacity. A ghost of a smile playing on her mouth.  

She did not say a word and he kept his silence, goading her on. Wondering when it was that she’d crack. 

Wondering privately if he just might instead.  

When Sansa was so very still like this — not blinking, not blushing, confident and poised. Watching. And waiting with languid ease, as if she had all the time in the world, as if she knew a wonderful secret. As if she held all the cards. 

This was what he was talking about. Petyr felt his cock stir.  

She lowered her eyes and her thick lashes dusted her cheeks momentarily before he realised that he’d been drawn naturally to the slightest whisper of movement. Her hands were on her lap but he knew just then what he needed to see. 

“Touch yourself,” he murmured. “Your neck.” 

Only the slight widening of her eyes gave him an indication that she was still the student.  

She leaned her left elbow on the bar and tilted her neck, inclining her head toward the ceiling, stretching out that kissable, lickable column of flesh. And then with one slender finger, she absently touched herself, drawing a line slowly down the length of her throat and lingering at her collar.  

And all the while, her gaze never left his. And he was transfixed. 

When she brushed a fingertip slowly across her pillowy lips, Petyr’s cock definitely hardened. 

“Good,” was all he had to say. 

* * *

“I knew you’d be useful,” Margaery crowed.

It was all arranged, and even if Sansa did not quite understand the extent of Petyr’s effort, nor seen for herself the impressive number of strings he managed to pull, it was done. Petyr had secured a room at The Stamford Club, bypassing the usual balloting process and the tiny inconvenient fact that he was not an actual member. 

He had been assured that a man fitting Harrold’s description was staying at the Stamford with a very private lady who had longstanding connections to the Club. Rich Bitch indeed. The room would be ready tomorrow around lunchtime and Margaery promised to do Sansa’s hair before dashing off once again for lunch with Mr T. 

“I know, I promised, I know…” Margaery sighed dramatically. “I’m piking on you again. But I promise that I’ll jump into the nearest Uber straight after and fly back to you as soon as lunch is over. _I promise!_ But I just can’t miss the lunch, darlings. I just can’t!” 

“You have lunch with him all the time, Margee!” Sansa could not help but accuse. “Just these two days, couldn’t you just not lunch with the T for _two days_?” 

“But I gave my word to him as well, you see…” And Margaery hesitated. Oh but she couldn’t — how could she even begin to explain! That this lunch was _huge_ because she was going to meet his family — and as his date? The questions!  

Margaery asked the questions. Margaery did not care to be questioned. 

“And besides,” Margaery huffed in her defence, “I’m only going to be hiding in the room ordering room service anyway. Harry can’t see me, or the gig is up. You have to appear all loved up with Petyr alone! You’re supposed to be having your own wild affair, for crying out loud. Who brings their best friend along to a sexy staycation!”  

Margaery had a point and Sansa sighed, which made Margaery sigh in relief and Petyr quietly stretch his legs like a cat. He had to smother that grin, he just had to. But he could hardly wait. 

* * *

Another sharp snap in the air and this time, it bloody stung.

“Oww!” cried Harrold, forgetting the rules again which only made Cece crack her whip once more, this time across the inside of his right thigh, insanely close to his cock which still couldn’t decide if it was wildly excited or on the verge of bidding a strategic retreat. The Battle of the Bulge. 

Also, Cece could be bloody _method_ when it came to costume play. 

Harrold Hardyng was still wearing the school blazer, his striped tie askew and his white little-boy briefs and shiny school-edition trousers gathered around his ankles. So far, he had been smacked for talking out of turn, spanked for looking at the teacher the wrong way, and whipped for existing, really. The standard-edition hotel armchair creaked uncomfortably, already having suffered from this afternoon’s rather vigorous activities. They had already broken one the other night, but Cece just ordered another to come and like him, the hotel staff had taken one look at her stormy expression and chosen instead to apologise for the chair breaking.  

And was it just him, or did she tie the ropes especially tight this evening? 

“My love…” he tried once more and was duly rewarded with another _crack_. _Use the safeword!_ he remembered again belatedly, and she rolled her eyes when he bleated it this time. “I have to make a visit to the little boy’s room, love!” he explained plaintively. 

“I told you to go before we started!” she snapped, yanking the ties and unlocking the cuffs with a practised deftness before flopping back down on the bed with a huff, tossing the rider's crop across the room. Harry shuffled to the bathroom as quickly as his school trousers would allow before closing the door gently. Cece hated it when he slammed anything.  

He loved her, he really really did, he thought. But sometimes, she could really exhaust him. All these rules... 

No phones, that was the other rule and _that_ was probably the hardest thing to lose of all. But he was learning, he knew. _I want you to be a slave to me, not to that shitty little gadget,_ she had explained all those moons ago and he had thought that the sexiest thing alive.  

She led him around by the collar. Some nights, quite literally. He was hopelessly whipped and he fucking _loved_ it. 

Still. A man could feel quite cut off from the rest of the world, even if that was supposed to be the whole point. Harrold had snuck the papers into the expansive bathroom a week ago and he now gleefully settled down on the cold toilet seat as he retrieved it silently from the alcove where the washing machine was kept. 

The funnies first, and then the episode guide for the local soaps that he secretly adored, thanks to years bingeing on that kind of thing back home with Sansa. A movie review on the latest action blockbuster, and then some gossip about a celebrity having triplets and most certainly ruining her figure. Sad. He’s flipping from the back page to the front and it was only when he reached the local gossip that his stomach about dropped. 

“New love for Southeast Asia's wealthiest multi-industry tycoon rumoured to be international romance writer, Alayne Stone” the caption of the grainy photo read.  

_Get out!_

Harrold sat bolt upright now, even as he could hear Cece move from the bed. “Harry!” she was calling him now, even as he squinted at the photo. A woman on a catamaran, an imposingly tall, older man next to her. 

But no — that wasn’t Sansa. That couldn’t be, he knew. The photo was in full colour, the woman’s back was to the photographer, and she was standing in the shade, but even then, Harrold could tell. That wasn’t Sansa. For one thing, that lady was too short. The hair colour was all wrong. And Sansa would never wear a bikini.  

He breathed a sigh of relief before scoffing softly to himself. _Stupid local reporters,_ he snorted. _Get your facts right…_

“Big boy…” Cece purred. She was standing right outside his door. 

“Be right there, love,” he promised as he flushed and used that to mask the sound of him sliding the door to the alcove open before tucking the papers back in their hiding place. 

When Harry opened the door, Cece had totally changed her wardrobe — in that she had shed every stitch of rubber. Her nipples were dark peach with desire, her bush was thick and gold, and a smile was playing sensuously on that generous, generous mouth that did things to his cock he never even knew were possible two months ago.  

Cersei was back to being a kitten again and for all the whiplash that her mood swings could give, at least Harry’s cock was very, very glad indeed.   

* * *

This time she had asked to meet him at the hotel bar of her choosing. “I googled, and they have a live set tonight,” she explained. Sansa loves Jazz, it turns out. And a rather famous local Jazz singer was doing her set at The Mandarin tonight.

Petyr had gone home to change and shower off the exhaustion of the day. And then still in his towel, he had found himself wandering over — as he often did — past Sansa’s door. And then he had pushed the door open — as was his habit of late — and stepped into her room. He had inhaled her, drunk her in — that faint smell of berries and musk and her personal scent, while his eyes had roved her space hungrily, scanning for even more clues. The book she was reading, maybe. A sketch she had left half-done that he recognised was the skyline from when they had stood at the Esplanade. That night, when she leaned in and took a selfie and he had almost kissed her, for the umpteenth time that week. 

He could never chance upon her manuscript, even though he knew she was always working on it. It rather felt like a secret, which only intrigued him more. As much as romance fiction amused him, he was rather dying to know if the events of the past few months had somehow figured into her fairytale. And if even a hint of their precious time together of late had somehow made its way into the narrative.  

He had then spied her shopping in the corner of the room, still in the colourful paperbags with the tags all on. _Her new lingerie_ — and again, he'd felt that familiar flutter in his stomach as the blood rushed down low. The most bizarre, surreal evening yesterday, when she had decided she absolutely _had_ to get something special for Harrold and needed a man’s opinion. Margaery had piked on them yet again and so Petyr had played the long-suffering stand-in. 

He had suffered, alright. His balls had turned mightily blue.  

It was the more unnatural thing for Petyr to walk behind the woman he fancied harder than anyone he’d ever fancied in his life apart from himself, only to feign helpful, platonic, asexual indifference as he picked out the lingerie he thought would best incite that asshole to fuck the woman he l—  

Petyr had once spent an entire year working eighteen-hour days in a massive room with no natural light, all to unravel the colossal security breach for an Unknown Country that No One was Supposed To Talk About that was Not Supposed to Spy On The Other Countries But Most Definitely Was Anyway and could he Please Fix Things so they could Continue Espionaging-ing? 

That had been a bloody walk in the park compared to picking out the fuck-me wardrobe for Sansa to seduce her husband in.  

She had not gone so far as to model his choices, and Petyr still remained torn about that decision. On the one hand, getting an eyeful of Sansa in burgundy lace and satin with that discreet button crotch would have been _most_ welcome. But as things were that evening, he had been this close to splitting his own button-fly and giving the gig away as his full-to-bursting cock waved in the breeze in cheery, sheepish surrender.  

And all that while, he could not help but wonder as she brushed her hand across a bodice, as her finger lingered on the lace, as she considered a coquette’s corset… His eyes had narrowed at times even as her own grew larger and more innocent than ever. “This one, you think?” she had almost whispered and he would picture her in it, of course. Instantly. And he’d hum and offer advice and ask _What Would Do Harrold?_

And if Petyr hadn’t known better, he’d almost think Sansa had been playing him like a twelve-dollar ukulele.  

But he was here now, a little earlier than he had planned. Petyr had managed to score the seats nearest to the stage and was settled in now, arms relaxed and curved on each armrest, eyes hooded and trained to the only entrance leading to this side of the mezzanine. His shirt was undone at the collar, his jacket black and dapper. He knew he looked pretty good. 

He saw her the moment she walked into the lounge and it was as if the air itself had changed as heads surreptitiously turned, as eyes around the room grew interested, even transfixed. She saw him, he was almost certain of it. But she walked to the bar, the long straight skirt reaching the floor, the slit modest and yet tantalising in the way it hinted at long, smooth legs that went all the way to the top and then… 

There was a man and he had beaten another to the punch as he sidled up to her and slipped into the bar stool. _Are you waiting for someone?_ Petyr lip-read. And when Sansa had merely smiled, the stranger had been emboldened enough to ask, _May I buy you a drink?_   

It wasn’t the make-up, he knew. Or even the way she wore her hair. Her neckline was soft and flirted over her breasts, but even that was not what clinched it in the end, Petyr knew. 

Sansa was a siren now, fully. It was the way she held herself, the way she had walked into the room as if she belonged there, as if she owned it. Her height, her grace, and that regal way she turned her head, fully expecting to be worshipped and yet not ever giving a damn. It was still an act, he knew. Deep down, deep deep  _deep_ down. 

But for all intents and purposes, the transformation was complete. Petyr smiled like a proud _shīfu_ , emptied his glass and set it down before standing up to button his jacket. It was one of his very last nights to claim her company all to himself. And if there’s one thing Petyr sorely lacked, it was the ability to share. 

Besides… they still had to practise playing the cosy couple.  

* * *

It was almost three in the morning when Sansa’s phone went off. She jerked awake and fumbled, missing the call eventually but the damage was done and Petyr cussed silently, his little heaven on earth evaporating now like a fog burning off in a desert sun. She pulled herself away from him, slowly gathering her bearings. His arm had long fallen asleep from the weight of her and he tested it now, clenching and unclenching his fist as blood started to flow back in. Sansa did not seem at all fazed or alarmed that she’d essentially fallen asleep in his arms. 

“How long have I been out?” 

“Just over an hour.” 

“It’s raining,” she realised, looking out to the blackness of his garden and finally registering the torrential rain pounding the roof of his deep verandah.   

Her phone went off again and the look of consternation on her face mirrored his own private annoyance. 

“Hello?” 

“Sansa!” croaked Olenna Tyrell’s smoky voice. 

“Olenna, is everything alright?” Sansa cried, slightly alarmed. _My editor,_ she mouthed silently to Petyr and he nodded understandingly before getting up to find a glass of water in his kitchen for the both of them. 

“What time is it?” 

“It’s three in the morning!” 

“Oh bugger, I always get it back to front,” grumbled Olenna now. “What are you doing up anyway? Shouldn’t you be asleep?” 

“Olenna,” Sansa patiently answered, keeping her exasperation at bay, “your call woke me up.” 

“Right!” And because it was Olenna, she managed to convey that it was somehow Sansa’s fault all the same. “Listen… I wouldn’t have called if something didn’t come to my attention. You.” 

“Me?” 

“The Daily Rag’s got a small one-liner of you in the gossip section, something about running around Singapore all loved up with a rich, older man. What is going on, Sansa!” 

Petyr returned to find Sansa stammering into the phone. 

“I d-don’t understand!”  

_“Alayne Stone, international romance writer, has been spotted in the company of a handsome, mysterious older man rumoured to be one of southeast asia’s richest tycoons—“_

Sansa whipped her head around and stared up at Petyr. 

“—all about town, yada-yada, there’s no picture. But darling, what about Harrold? I thought you were there looking for him!” 

“But I am!” Sansa cried helplessly.  

“He doesn’t quite fit the bill of ‘mysterious older man’, my girl. Have you been fooling around?” 

“No!” 

“Because if you have been, darling, I’m not one to judge. But you should have told me all the same so I can manage it! That’s what I’m here for!” 

“But I’m not, Olenna! I sw—“ But Sansa had to press her lips then as Petyr looked at her worriedly. What if, her heart sank, someone had recognised her here after all? She thought she’d be safe here, a virtual nobody. Who even really knows what their favourite authors look like, after all? She knew she certainly didn’t! She never thought she’d get recognised in _Singapore_ , of all places...  

But Petyr was definitely older. And he was definitely rather mysterious. And he had been paying for everything. And he most certainly was… handsome. 

They had danced tonight. She had drunk rather a lot and then sung for him in a duet with that local Jazz crooner, the both of them putting on quite the show for Petyr, who looked like he really enjoyed it, like a cat who just got a bowlful of the most decadent cream.  

Yesterday, they had gone shopping for a twin set of very intimate clothing, for crying out loud. And she had flirted shamelessly just to get a rise out of him for once. What if the media had seen them there?! 

_Loved up._ Sansa stared at Petyr and wondered. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yes, to the three of you who had immediately yelled "CERSEI!" in the beginning of the fic, there you go! Harrold and Cece have finally made their debut together. Just as well that Sansa has found her mojo, eh?
> 
> To those of you who have just joined in (I think I get new-ish people every week), WELCOME! If you're not too shy, I'd love a hello and to say a huge hello back!
> 
> I am also on [Tumblr.](https://0pheliaraine.tumblr.com/)


	10. Look who's coming to lunch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the previous chapter of Sabbatical...
> 
> Captain Peter kisses Sara Albrecht... Sansa learns how to use her hands... a room at The Stamford is booked... Harrold gets schooled... Sansa REALLY enters a bar... and learns later that she's made international news. Sorta. Like in passing. 
> 
> All caught up? Let's cha-cha!

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162326344@N04/42639130134/in/dateposted-public/)

 

> He kissed down the length of her soft, smooth neck, taking in the creaminess of her shoulder, the rise and fall of her bosom as it heaved against her bodice. Sara felt dizzy, her breaths growing shallow as she felt the press of Peter's bare, manly chest, his scar snaking down and vanishing into his taut cotton trousers.
> 
> _I shouldn’t!_ a tiny voice in Sara’s head implored. _What would Mama say! And my betrothed..._ but as his lips met hers once more, as his tongue begged entrance, Sara knew she was lost. 
> 
> It was as though her body was aflame, every lick and kiss setting her skin alight and she moaned into the moonlight as her hair tumbled down her back, as she felt the length of his manhood graze against her most secret place. 
> 
> “Oh Peter!” she cried into the night as his fingers toyed lazily with the lace of her neckline, before reaching down to graze her creamy breasts threatening to spill out of their confines, begging for their exultant release. A shock of pleasure lit down her spine and she threw her head back as his hand reached down to cup a pale breast and knead it wickedly. 
> 
> “I have wanted you since I first cast eyes on you, m’lady…” Peter breathed and she trembled at the very thought that he would want her so. She pressed her lips back, her sweet tongue now seeking to dance with his own and she heard him moan his pleasure into her mouth before his fingers slipped beneath the lace and she heard a terrible ripping sound as her dress, her bodice was torn asunder.
> 
> The sand was cool against her back as he pushed her gently back, as she felt the weight of him over her. She was a woman taken over by a most strange and wonderful fever, her fingers now tangled frantically in his hair as another hand swept down the full expanse of his broad, solid chest before it halted at the stays of his breaches. He groaned as he felt her hands on his hot, throbbing shaft and there was yet another tearing, popping sound before Peter the man came free. 
> 
> Oh, but he was so large! And Sara’s eyes widened as she felt the length of his ~~manhood~~ ~~cock~~ ~~shaft~~ male hardness, hot and heavy in her hand. Peter burrowed into her heaving chest and whence he took a full suckle, Sara arched her back and wailed. 
> 
> Her efforts grew eager now. Sara's fingertips brushed against his engorgement, and Peter questioned his mortality as his eyes roll’d back in pleasure. Quickly, he wrapp’d his fingers around her own and shewed her how to touch him, how to work his ~~cock~~ shaft. She was a quick and talented student and ere long, Peter found himself start to come apart.
> 
> (*Research Regency knickers and how to take them off.) 
> 
> “Sara!” he urged desperately now and she heard his plea. He guided his rigid member to her entrance, the head of his throbbing length at her heated curtain of flesh and he groaned mightily when she tilted her own hips towards him wantonly. 
> 
> “Sweet Sara,” he murmured into her ear, hoarse with desire, “you are exquisite and I cannot wait!"
> 
> “Oh take me, Peter!” she cried. “And make me yours!”
> 
> With another groan, he plunged into her ~~secret garden~~ violently, piercing her precious maidenhead as she arched her back and screamed in pleasure. Oh he had hurt her, but now there burgeoned within a passionate intensity that robbed her of all thought. Together they rocked as one, making sweet music in the moonlight as he thrusted into her with his ~~battering ram~~ ~~column?~~ ~~of passion!~~ MASTERFUL COLUMN OF PASSION (*come back and edit later, must find a nicer word.)
> 
> Sara clung to him now as a tidal wave loomed large and when it finally crashed upon her, sending smaller waves of rapture in its wake, she knew not which was his soul and which was hers. They were one and the same.
> 
> A violence of spasms shook her body as she trembled in his arms, a low primitive wail marking her ecstasy matched only by Peter's own as he threw his glorious head of hair back and roared like a beast. Such blinding pleasure, a shock of lightning as she came and all was white and pure before the world turned black and she fell into a dead faint in his arms. 

 

* * *

 “It’s official: I am a Makeover God- _dess!_ ” thus declared Margaery, turning Sansa around to face the mirror as the latter quietly absorbed the shock of the transformation.

“Only because you have such great material to work with,” reminded Petyr deflatingly. He strolled over now and lifted Sansa’s hand to kiss her knuckles gently. “You look wonderful, Sansa. Not that you didn’t before — but Margaery’s definitely brought out something else now.”

And Sansa flushed. She couldn’t help it, honestly. Such lovely attention. What a sweet thing to say. 

 _She really did look different,_ Sansa thought. Her hair was schooled into perfect waves, her face was immaculate and poreless, her eyeshadow playing up the deep blue of her eyes. Sansa had never seen her eyebrows plucked so thin and arched so that her resting face now looked just that smidgen haughtier. Or ‘entitled-little-shit aristocratic’, as Margaery liked to call it, before adding warmly, “I mean it in the _very_ best way, of course!"

It was transformative, Petyr thought, and he was glad for it. He watched closely as Sansa’s back had straightened and her chin had lifted subtly. The make-up, the clothes, the shoes, the bag… They were all parts of a costume, a refreshed identity and he watched as she slipped into her new skin and slowly  _became_. 

“Now… gonna love you and leave you, darling!” cooed Margaery as she lightly kissed Sansa’s hair and hugged her tight. “I have to go be gorgeous for someone else now.”

“You’re going already?” Sansa looked surprised. “Thought you were meeting Mr T for lunch!”

“I need… an apéritif,” Margaery grinned and Petyr rolled his eyes before giving Marge a lascivious side-eye. He watched as Margaery bustled about the room, chucking her make-up and God knows what else into a vintage Goyard handcarry, before bundling too many bags down the stairs and sailing forthwith from his house and into that now-familiar black Bentley parked just outside the gate. 

Petyr waited until the car pulled away from his property before sauntering over casually with a blue velvet box.

“I’m hopeless with a powder blush, so I thought I’d contribute in other ways.” And Sansa gasped when he opened the box to reveal a delicate white gold chain with a pendant, the deep-blue stone cut into a long teardrop.

“That’s too much!” she cried. “Please don’t tell me that’s a diamond.”

“It’s not a diamond,” Petyr deadpanned.

“It’s far too beautiful… I can’t possibly!”

And he sighed. He had anticipated this reaction, of course.

“Consider it a loan, then. My contribution to our little project. And besides,” Petyr grinned now, “no self-respecting Sugardaddy would let a neck like yours go unadorned.” And then taking on a more serious tone, Petyr reminded Sansa, “Harrold’s bitch will likely notice jewels. If you want to persuade them both that you have found love and are moving on, you need to look… precious. To me. _Treasured_ … by me.”

She touched her neck self-consciously but did not fight him this time when he undid the clasp and nestled the pendant around the hollow of her throat. He could not resist brushing his fingertips lightly over the back of her neck, nor staring in fascination at the way her skin pebbled slightly at the touch.

Petyr had estimated perfectly and the both of them stared at the necklace in the mirror, and the way the pendant caught the light. An oldie, they say, but a goodie.

“There are matching earrings,” he pointed out now as the phone in his study went off. “I’ll leave you to it then.”

Sansa stared at herself in the mirror, at the gorgeous simplicity of the jewels and how they set off her navy dress. She fingered the thin chain, touched the pendant nestling at her neck once more, and heartily loved everything about it.

 _It’s a loan,_ she reminded herself. And felt instantly conflicted.

Another glint caught her eye then.

Slowly, Sansa reached over and worked her ring off, the one Harry had especially fashioned to be both engagement and wedding band. Not too long ago, she had lost so much weight that the ring slipped easily in and out of her finger. Maybe it was the heat in Singapore, or perhaps Sansa had gained some of her weight back, but it was a good two minutes before that wedding ring finally came off and her finger was free of it.

It was only when she set it carefully down on the dresser in front of her that she noticed Margaery’s mobile phone.

* * *

_I could really, really get used to this,_ thought the newly sated and legless Margaery as she idly drew circles around the small curls of golden-grey hairs on Tywin's chest. _Even if this still feels surreal._

The late-morning sun pierced through the slit in the curtains, a sharp shard of light that made Margaery shift then bury her face in his chest as she heard the thump-thump of his heartbeat slowing down to normal. She had barely dropped her handbag in the armchair of the bedroom when he'd mauled her like a lion, practically throwing her over his shoulder as she squealed like a girl, before tossing her on the bed and ravishing her silly. _I could really, really get used to this,_ she grinned again.  

Except... There was something about this morning, something in the way they had thrown themselves at each other. Margaery wondered now if this was as much about his nerves as it was about her own. 

"Could you tell me more about your family?" Her voice sounded oddly small and plaintive in the room. She cleared her throat and deepened her voice. "Anything I should know now before our lunch?"

There was a small pause as Tywin's hand stilled in Margaery's hair before he resumed his stroking and fingering of it. 

"I have three children. A pair of twins, boy and girl," he said, as if they were still two years old. "And a midget son," he added eventually.

"A midget son?"

"Tyrion." And something in the way he said the name made Margaery decide not to push any further.

"Who are we meeting today?" Margaery asked instead.

"My daughter. Cersei." 

"Nice name."

Again, a strange silence fell over them. It was like pulling teeth, frankly. 

"You mentioned this was a lunch to meet... Cersei's... new partner?"

"It would appear so." Another long pause and Margaery waited before Tywin offered, "Cersei and I are not close."

"Ya think?" snorted Margaery. It was either that, or he really was a private man, unused to talking about his family outside of actual family. She snuck a look at Tywin's face now and saw that he was staring intently at the ceiling, as if deciding what to say. 

"She's not done this before..." he finally explained. A look passed over his face, one that Margaery did not quite understand. "Bring a boy to meet The Father. She's had others since her husband's death five years ago. But this is a first."

"Sounds pretty serious, then!" quipped Margaery lightly, but she hugged Tywin closer.

"Hmmm..." was all he said, and another strange look crossed his face fleetingly before he retreated into himself and became inscrutable once more.

"What about her twin?"

And Tywin's head snapped now to stare at Margaery. "What about her twin!"

"He in town too?" And Margaery stared as Tywin glared down at her. "What!" she demanded to know now. "What did I say!"

"Jaime isn't back, no." And to Margaery's bewilderment, another dark look crossed Tywin's face. 

"Oh. Well. Would he have joined us at this lunch as well, if he was?" prodded Margaery, unsure which way to take this conversation now.

"Exactly," was the infuriatingly enigmatic reply, and Margaery promptly gave up, harrumphing into his chest. Another bout of silence fell over them in the ticking seconds before she couldn't resist asking—

"This your first time too?"

A large pause as she waited, subtly holding her breath.

"Yes," he finally admitted. "I don't usually make it a habit of mixing my private life with family."

"It's just lunch, Tywin..." she lied for both of them now, before snaking her arm up around his neck and drawing him down to kiss her tender and slow, her own heart now thumping strangely quick. 

* * *

  _Three... four... five heads_ , Petyr counted smugly. He had always been a numbers man, and his latest habit was to count off the number of blokes who would turn and gape at Sansa before staring enviously at him. Petyr had always thoroughly enjoyed entering a room with her — but never more so than now, with her startlingly tall stilettos and that exquisite Dior dress that seemed to narrow her tiny waist all the more. Her fingers were laced with his and he had to remind himself not to graze his finger over the naked, pale strip of skin where her wedding band once sat.

Petyr was dressed to look the part as well, looking especially dapper today in his favourite suit, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his rings on his fingers. He was growing his goatee again and the salt and pepper bristles on his chin served only to emphasise his silvering temples. 

Man, was he getting old. 

"Welcome to The Stamford," the front reception manager smiled winningly.

* * *

"So... where's this lunch?" Margaery finally asked. Usually, she was happy to be surprised. Tywin's tastes were expensive and adventurous — a consistency when it came to his appetites, as Margaery could testify firsthand.

"Family haunt," he supplied. "Somewhere casual this afternoon at the local yacht club. I hope you don't mind."

"I never mind, Tywin," Margaery assured him, squeezing his hand. Both of them were feeling slightly nervous and tense, and excited and unsure, and dying to squash and hide it all from each other. _Birds of a feather..._

She just managed to read the stone monument sign sitting with gravitas on the corner before their car turned into an avenue lined with an endless row of tropical trees.

THE STAMFORD YACHT CLUB

* * *

_They could be anywhere…_

Tywin’s hand was large and firm on Margaery’s back as she tottered beside him in her heels, surreptitiously craning her neck like a turtle as she scanned the lobby for either one of them. _Where are they!_ she wondered desperately, glancing at her latest huge-ass Nautilus on her tiny wrist. They should be arriving anytime now. _If they see me with Tywin…_ Sansa’s bug-eyes. AndPetyr would never let Margaery hear the end of it.

 _“Mr T, eh Marge?” S_ he imagined his infuriating smirk.  _“T for Timelord? Or THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING!"_

_Oh god._

Mercifully, Tywin’s phone went off right then and she waited until he excused himself and took the conversation to the courtyard, before she started to rummage through her bag in earnest. Her phone wasn’t in its usual pocket — must have slipped right to the bottom, she swore. And meanwhile… what does one text! “You’ll never guess where I am right now…” Margaery mumbled to herself and then cringed as she imagined both Sansa and Petyr staking out the restaurant for a peek.

Except now, she had spied a free sofa in the lobby and was presently chucking the contents of her purse on the seat. _No!_ she realised finally in horror. She had changed handbags just before leaving Petyr’s house, all to match her newest Manolos. Damn and crap! Although knowing Sansa as well as Margaery did, she felt certain that Sansa would have seen her phone and brought it along to the club. A girl and her technological lifeline will not be parted long.

 _And besides,_ Margaery comforted herself as she spied Tywin slipping through the glass doors from the courtyard, _there are worse things in the world_. She took in the length of his stride, the easy way he cut a swath through the crowd like a fucking King. He’s so tall, so ridiculously attractive still — all the more _because_ of his age, and not in spite of it. _And he’s fucking accomplished and powerful and my eggs should be trembling with want._ She swallowed now, suddenly humbled — a strange sensation rather new and bewildering to Margaery. _He likes me,_ she realised finally.  _Enough to have me meet his daughter…_  And her mouth formed an O. 

This time, when his hand slipped behind her back, she leaned in closer and fucking owned it. 

_Let them watch._

* * *

“I’d like to order a Mart—“

“NO, you will fucking NOT order a Martini, you pussy!” Cersei hissed.

“But you know how much I love olives, Cece!” Harry tried not to whine. They weren’t in character anymore. Cersei had even kept her wigs and was back to being blonde again, which was rather nice. They had matching hair now, Harrold mused. Their shades were awfully similar. From the back, they could almost be fucking twins. Except, of course, you don’t fuck a twin. _Duh_.

Harrold rolled his eyes at himself and smiled. His wrists were still kinda sore from the morning’s rope burn. But otherwise, he was feeling rather chipper.

Which was just as well, because Cece was more nervy than a cat on a hot tin roof. He had never seen her this tetchy and anxious, really.

Harrold smiled at her, that lazy lopsided grin that he knew chicks found both sexy and adorable. It took a moment longer than usual, but Cersei finally blessed him with a reluctant smile in return.

 _Fuck_ , _but he was young,_ mused Cersei now, taking in the full head of blonde hair so reminiscent of Jaime’s, it almost fucking hurt to look at it. The number of times she had sunk her fingers into that glorious head of hair to keep him just so at her cunt. And all that energy! Like a fully charged vibrator, or a brand new puppy. 

He adored her. No matter how much of a cow she was to him, he would lap it up and forgive her. It was bizarre, and yet also a staggeringly effective turn-on. She hadn’t come that hard in a while. 

It’s nice to feel that powerful. To be that adored. 

More importantly, it’s nice to _genuinely_ adored. And her father could smell an actor or a fraud a country mile away. 

Her father also hated men who ordered ‘women’s cocktails'. Loathed them on sight, and in principle. Men were men and drank like men. Tywin could be exacting in his standards.

“I love your hair like this, Cece!” And Harry reached over now to touch a lock of her hair and run it through his fingers reverently. “You always look so beautiful, no matter what hair you wear. But I love your natural blonde the most.” His eyes roved her body once more, taking in the long silk dress, the pale golden hair, the plainness of her make up. Such a difference to their evening get-up. This was Cersei’s alter ego and even though this must be her natural look, somehow Harrold rather suspected that she was far more honest when she was wigged and all whippy, coming hard into his mouth. 

He had her to thank for teaching him so many things, seriously. 

“You mustn’t call me Cece,” she reminded him but kept her voice soft.

“I forgot,” he mumbled and she relented a little. It would grate on her father’s nerves, but then again — did she really need Tywin to like Harrold? Or was it enough for her father to merely believe him?

“We’re very early.”

“My father doesn’t like tardiness.”

“We are almost fifteen minutes early, Ce—Cersei!” A pause, before Harrold asked hesitantly, “Are you your Daddy’s Girl?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean!” she flared before she forced herself to cool back down. “No…” she admitted now. “Maybe,” she corrected. “I was, I think. Once upon a time.”

“What happened?”

“Shit happened, Harry. What else is there.”

There was a pause after that, and she wondered if she had finally pushed him away. But instead, he picked up his chair and was now half-scraping it closer to her. She watched with an almost detached fascination as he gently picked up her hand, lifting it to his lips before kissing it softly like some kind of cunting knight.

“I won’t let shit happen no more,” he smiled and Cersei had to hand it to him. Even though she didn't love the boy, there’s something very attractive about a younger lover who looked at you like you’re a fucking queen. And for all the disappointments and indignities she’s had to endure of late, Harrold — married or no — remains the weirdest but most welcome surprise and for that, Cersei was quietly and secretly thankful.

* * *

Her eyes were still peeled for the faintest sign of Petyr or Sansa but they were nowhere to be seen. They had probably gone to their room, Margaery told herself and then felt oddly disappointed. 

“Shall we?” Tywin beckoned towards the restaurant alongside the club and hotel reception, and again he slipped his hand on the small of her back as he guided her firmly past the front desk.

“My usual, Varys,” Margaery heard Tywin intone to the Maître D’ — a shortish, plump, bald and vaguely Oriental man that Margaery couldn’t quite place, for he didn’t look at all like one of the locals. He smelled like a lavender bush.

“Certainly, Sir Tywin. Your daughter is already waiting. Welcome back,” was the musical obsequious response and Margaery followed meekly behind as Varys led the way to a table near the windows overlooking the garden.

The first thing that caught Margaery’s attention was the sheet of golden hair worn like a veil, belonging to a strikingly gorgeous woman, about fortyish. For a moment there, Margaery was completely taken by those familiar emerald green eyes, that enviably fair skin, and the older woman's even more enviable figure — her slender, svelte frame totally belying her age. 

It took Margaery a little longer to realise who was sitting right next to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to put everything else in the next chapter... and to stop. right. here.
> 
> :-)


	11. Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the previous chapter of Sabbatical... 
> 
> Margaery dumps her friends for Mr T and comes full circle anyway... Petyr and Sansa check in... Margaery changes her handbag and loses her mind... And Sara Albrecht comes to fully admire the new installation of Captain Peter's masterful column of passion in her secret garden. 
> 
> All caught up? Let's fandango!

  
[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162326344@N04/28614150607/in/dateposted-public/)

_You have got to be fucking kidd—_

“This is my daughter, Cersei,” Tywin announced as the blonde goddess pushed her chair back to gracefully rise from her seat. “Cersei, I’d like you to meet—“  

“Marge?!” blurted Harry, utterly horrified and astonished. Margaery was still picking her jaw from the floor but at the sound of her real name, her eyes widened as full panic set in and froze her brain. Harry was stammering now. “But how… but wh… but wh… are you—“ 

“Her name is _Alayne_ ,” Tywin corrected, narrowing his eyes at Harrold, who had completely forgotten his manners and all the explicit little instructions his Cece had given him not two minutes prior. He was still sitting down and belatedly, he thought to stand, scraping his chair noisily on the marble checkerboard floor which only made Tywin’s grimace deepen. 

“Who’s Marge!” Cersei demanded to know now as Margaery shook her head slightly, pleading with Harry silently even while she was simultaneously _itching_ to stick an entree fork in his face and the dinner one in his teeny weeny little pee— 

“My mistake, love,” Harrold mumbled instead. “I thought she was someone I knew back home in Melbourne. The uh… resemblance is quite… something.” He added after a beat. “Did you say _Alayne?_ ” 

“Alayne Stone,” Tywin affirmed and Margaery cringed, not daring to look at Harrold even as she felt the heat of his curious gaze burning on her skin now.  

Cersei, however, was like a dog with a bone. 

“You said ‘Marge', like you know her!” she hissed, and Margaery snapped her head up just in time to catch Harrold reaching over to squeeze Cersei’s hand.  

“I don’t know her, my queenie,” he reassured Cersei now, who still looked like she didn’t believe him. “She’s got a common face, that’s all!” 

_Asshole!_  fumed Margaery. But he’s got her over a barrel right now, of all ironies. And they seemed like magic words in the circumstance anyhow. Margaery watched as Cersei’s stony visage relaxed into a beatific smile. 

“And so she does!” Cersei cooed, before catching Tywin’s thunderous face. He had missed nothing. 

“I do,” Margaery hastily volunteered, cutting Tywin off before he could tear into his daughter and her date. She leaned on his chest subtly, rubbing her derrière against him and willing him to calm. “Happens all the time. Don’t worry about it. Cersei, lovely to meet you. And this is…” 

“My Harry,” was the quietly haughty reply.  

* * *

“This is yours…” And Petyr slipped the second keycard into Sansa’s hand, fingers brushing across her palm lightly. Their bags were already with the porter, and all that remained now was to take the elevator up to their room.

Their _shared_ room. 

“It’s not very big, is it,” Petyr volunteered by way of apology, and Sansa felt her tummy go a-flutter as she surveyed the modest space she was to play house with him for at least forty-eight hours. It was the size of a standard hotel room, perhaps a little roomier as it was the wheelchair-accessible Deluxe. Sansa eyed the lower than normal King bed, strategically placed handrails, the wide study desk, and the usual entertainment unit facing the headboard. A cosy lounge suite backed against the wall of windows in the small living area, and Sansa noted the slim daybed nestled in the shallow alcove off to the side of the television cabinet. 

Sansa suddenly realised the list of things she would have to do in front of Petyr — from sifting through her lingerie bag for matching undies, to him seeing her bleary morning face _sans_ make-up, and her wet hair in a towel turban… God, and all she had thought to bring for bedtime was her prettiest, _sexiest_ teddies. What if she didn’t get lucky with Harrold until Day Four! Sansa groaned inwardly, mentally slapping herself for the hubris of her naïve optimism. She eyed the distance from their bathroom to the covers of the bed. Maybe if she robed herself and then dropped it on the carpet right before she slipped under her covers… It’d be too hard to wear the robe INTO the bed and then try to wriggle out of it from under the quilt, wouldn't it? _Wouldn’t it?_

Sansa twisted her hair nervously, suddenly terribly shy. _Oh why didn’t she think this part through!_ she wondered desperately now. She’d have to stow away a bag of breath mints somehow and hide them in the side table drawer so she could pop a few in the morning and not kill him dead with her morning breath... 

But Sansa still remembered her manners and to be grateful. 

“Thank you for securing the room,” she smiled, not quite looking at him. Her cheeks were still warm but perhaps he would think it was from the heat of the day. “I know it was probably a challenge.” 

Petyr walked over now and placed his warm hands over both her arms, squeezing them slightly. “Anything to help,” he said for the umpteenth time, before bending to kiss her forehead lightly.  

She wondered if it was all his cologne, or whether he just smelled this way most of the time. What would he smell like in the morning, she wondered and then flushed guiltily once more.  

But Petyr hardly noticed at all.  

“Would you like some lunch?” And as if on cue, Sansa’s tummy rumbled and the both of them laughed. “I have my orders, then!” Petyr grinned as he opened their door in one smooth stroke and ushered her out of the room, his fingers pushing gently on the small of her back. Sansa had always been terribly, _terribly_ ticklish and Harrold could never touch her like this without setting her off. But with Petyr, it was just always… _different_.  

* * *

Harrold tried not to scrape his knife on the plate again, but it was terribly hard not to and the silence around the table didn’t help neither, did it.

At the next tiny shriek of metal against porcelain, Cersei shot him such a filthy look that he actually flinched — which only made her scowl harder. 

Margaery smirked. 

Cersei signalled to the waiter and wordlessly demanded he topped up her wine, even as her father frowned his disapproval like a gargoyle. _Fuck him,_ she thought vehemently as she sucked the wine off her tongue furiously. He didn’t have a leg to stand on so he can bloody well get off his high horse and break his neck. _And_ w _hat the hell is he thinking,_ she was dying to hiss. Cersei glared at the woman beside her from the corner of her eye, taking in the perky high breasts, the annoying know-it-all twist of that mouth, and the unashamedly slutty way she was staring intently at her Harry, eye-fucking him. At least he had the sense not to want to stare back, Cersei noted with some measure of satisfaction. 

Margaery couldn’t be much older than her own Joffrey, surely. Bitch probably has her eye on becoming the next mistress of Casterly Rock, let alone the liquid gold of their palm oil businesses in both Indonesia and Malaysia, among other things…  

“So how did the both of you meet?” Cersei now cooed, her voice deceptively low and inviting. “Online?” An arched eyebrow. 

“No, actually…” Margaery started, before Tywin cut in smoothly. 

“We met through acquaintances.” 

“Oh?” Cersei looked enchanted. “Anyone I know?” 

“No.” 

A bout of silence before Cersei started again. 

“Your accent… is it New Zealand?” 

“No…” 

“Canada!” 

“No, I’m Australian.” 

“Australian!” A lilt in the voice, pitched a little high. “You surprise me, little dove. I’ve always thought the Australian accent rather… yokel.” 

“So glad to change your mind,” Margaery returned smoothly, her big brown eyes now fixed on Cersei. Margaery gave her most winning smile even as she mentally started to extend her claws. 

“So what do you do, Alayne?” cooed Cersei, resting her elbow on the table in a way that she just knew would annoy her father so. Cersei rested her face on her palm, as if rapt. “Tell me all about yourself! I want to know who it is exactly who has stolen my father’s old, tender heart aw—“ 

“Cersei,” Tywin’s voice rumbled low and quiet but even Harry caught the dangerous undertone and proceeded to saw his steak with renewed diligence. “Your food must be getting cold, Daughter.” 

“Quite right,” Cersei smiled and nibbled at a lettuce leaf before gulping down a third of her refilled wine.  

“I’m… a… writer,” Margaery started slowly, staring at Harrold again. She felt Tywin shift beside her. They’d never talked about work before, not in detail. She had mentioned writing in the past but when he had assumed she was in PR for some reason, she had conveniently not bothered to correct him. 

“A writer! How very clever. What do you write?” 

“Romances, mostly. They do pretty well.” 

“Do they!” And Cersei's laugh managed to sound both girlishly brittle and threatening all at once. “And modest, too! Well done, Father dear.” 

Margaery squeezed Tywin's thigh under the table. _Don’t take the bait,_ she tried to tell him softly. She felt his hand cover hers briefly.  

“So, lots of dashing, young heroes, I imagine?” Cersei wondered aloud. “Or are they all impossible to please and authoritarian, elderly rich billionaires starting to lose their hair…" 

“No, actually. Most of my heroes are young and apparently unmarried and tend to look strangely like your date over here.” And Margaery tipped her chin at Harrold sitting directly opposite. “The resemblance is… something,” she couldn’t resist adding and in staring meaningfully at Harrold, Margaery had completely missed the shift in Cersei’s eyes. 

“Get your grubby, cheap whore hands off the men in my life!” Cersei hissed now. “I know your type. Men are stupid and gullible where a tight pussy and a pretty cleavage are concerned. But don’t you dare think you can sink your claws into my man and the Lannister empire—” 

“Cersei!” thundered Tywin and there was a pause in the entire room before the tinkle of cutlery and polite conversation resumed hesitantly. “You will apologise to Alayne at once!” 

“Like hell I will, Father! _Look at her!_ She’s a twenty-year-old Twinkie!” 

_Twenty-seven, actually._ Margaery was momentarily confused and oddly flattered. 

“My choices are none of your business,” growled Tywin as Margaery startled at the word. _Choice?_ But father and daughter were staring at each other from across the table now, the same green-gold eyes cooling to icy anger, their faces equally arrogant, neither taking prisoners. Cersei had the same way of pitching her voice silkily low and dangerous like Tywin, Margaery realised. She wondered if that was all nature or nurture, or a daughter’s attempt at mimicry. 

“Your choices  _are_ my business, when they threaten _our_ business!” 

“It is  _not_ your business,” Tywin scoffed and Harrold caught the look of hurt as it flitted across his fierce and beautiful Cece’s face. _She needs me!_ But for the life of him, he hadn’t a clue how to take on Tywin Lannister who was, frankly, scary as fuck. Harrold opened his mouth and whimpered like a miniature poodle, before shutting his lips again. No one noticed him.  

“So who are you going to leave it all to, huh?” mocked Cersei now. "Poor wounded Jaime? Fucking _Tyrion?_ Because only the boys are worth your attention, isn’t it, Father?” 

“Not the time and place, Cersei.” And no one missed the ripple of danger in that warning. “You will cease this outrageous talk and apologise to Alayne.” 

“You disgust me,” Cersei huffed instead, throwing her salad fork down so it clattered on the porcelain harshly. “Pathetic. That’s what you are. Chasing after a cheap skirt like some dirty old man—” 

“How old are you, young man?” demanded Tywin now and a squeaky sound leaked out Harrold’s throat before he could recover.  

“T-twenty-seven, sir…” he stammered now. Oh god, but Cersei was staring so furiously at him as well.  

“And you’re… forty-four,” finished Tywin, leveling a pitying gaze at his daughter. “A desperate cougar, not so much a lioness. And he,” Tywin gestured to Harrold dismissively, “is hardly an impressive specimen to drag me out to lunch with, Daughter.” 

“He’s a better man than you!” Cersei hissed. “He’s moneyed, but he’s kind. And he actually loves me, which is more than you can claim to be capable of.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s wet. Just look at him!” And the look that Tywin shot Harry was one of such disdain that Margaery almost felt sorry for him.  

“I have married for you, I have prostituted myself for the family, I have spawned two beautiful boys for the legacy of this empire!” Cersei spat now and Margaery felt the venom of her words along with the spittle. “You have robbed me of choices, of love… I’m done with all that. I’ve more than paid my dues for family, for _you!"_  

“Your personal choices of late, Daughter,” reminded Tywin harshly, his mouth twisted down, “leave a lot to be desired!” Both father and daughter were staring daggers while Harry and Marge awkwardly looked around the room, suddenly fascinated with the décor.  

“Well.” Cersei’s voice was gentle and soft again. It was downright unnerving. "You told me to choose different, Father.” And Cersei’s eyes glinted now as a shadow fell over Tywin's face. "And like the good girl I am, I went out and found someone and _this is my choice!_ ” And Harrold dropped his fork on the floor this time when Cersei reached over and laced her fingers with his. “Father, I’d like you to meet Harrold Hardyng, the man I’m serious about.” 

_Fuck me!_ Harrold’s heart leapt to his throat. He hadn’t expected that at all, and even as he struggled to look as certain and defiant as his Cece, he couldn’t help feeling delighted — all as his insides felt, well, seriously jumbled. Almost like he had a bad case of gas. 

He was still smiling like an idiot when Margaery kicked him hard in the shins. 

* * *

Petyr had excused himself and gone to the gents’ room in the lobby. “I’ll get us a table,” Sansa had assured him. “I’ll see you inside.”

“Be sure to charge it to the room, Sansa,” he had murmured in his gravelly voice before slipping his hand to cup her waist briefly as he leaned in and pecked her on the cheek. _Purely platonic of course_ , she told herself, for she knew that Harrold and his girlfriend could be anywhere now and that as soon as Petyr and Sansa left their own room, the grand charade was on. 

Still. He was awfully suave, she thought. 

The Maître D’ — a fairly short and portly bald man with a snooty, effete charm — soon spied a free table for Sansa in the far corner of the room, just past the large glass windows overlooking a picturesque garden and the golf course beyond it. Sansa took in the almost palatial ceiling heights, the European touches with the intricate line carvings in the feature wall as she waited, feeling a little like an imposter. She was comfortable enough, she knew. Her accountant kept telling her she had nothing to worry about and she never thought twice about buying pretty dresses and knick knacks although she could never bring herself to spend as flagrantly as Margee. But standing in this room and soaking in the nonchalant Old Money opulence of the place… Sansa felt like a country bumpkin, frankly. 

As soon as the Maître D' was assured that the table was ready, he turned around and gave a small, stiff bow which Sansa took as a signal for her to follow him. 

She was just weaving between two chairs to the second row when she thought she saw Margee. Sansa stopped abruptly to stare. It _was_ her, Sansa realised with a start of surprise before a slow smile spread across her face. And the elusive Mr T beside her too. _Gosh he was tall and stern_ , thought Sansa… and a lot older than she had expected, she frowned. I mean, goodness! He could be mistaken for her father, at least… 

Margee was seated at a round table of four by the windows facing out to the garden, her back to the room. It was so tempting to walk right over and introduce herself, if only to see poor Margee’s face, Sansa giggled to herself. Perhaps when Petyr came in later, they could descend on Margaery together. Sansa pictured Petyr’s wicked grin and her smile grew wider. He would _love_ that, she knew, picturing his sly smirk and the crinkle of his eyes. It’d be _hilarious_. Margee would _never_ forgive them! 

It was only when Margaery leaned over to her left to whisper softly into her distinguished Mr T’s ear that Sansa saw the familiar younger man sitting by the window. 

“Harry!” she squeaked before belatedly ducking as Harrold Hardyng popped his head up like a meerkat in the savanna. 

* * *

The moment Harry straightened, Margaery was nervous. 

“See something?” she asked casually even as she stared at his face like a hawk. It was quarter to two now, and Petyr and Sansa were definitely around here somewhere unless a bloody miracle had happened and they’d gotten stuck in traffic. 

“Uh…” was all that Harry would give her. He was craning his head now, this way and that. Margaery mirrored his movement subtly, trying desperately to block his view of the rest of the room. 

“Sit back down!” hissed Cersei as he finally gave in to his curiosity, rising up from his chair. 

“Anything I can help you with?” Tywin enquired with enough icy politeness to freeze a small child. But Harrold, as always, could only run one mission at a time. 

“Uh…” he said again and now Margaery was turning around to face the rest of the room. He had seen her, she was positive now. 

_Fuuuuuuck. Or maybe not fuck?_

_Where’s Petyr!_

“Alayne?” Harrold was asking now, and it’s a bloody miracle he remembered to use the right name at all. “Did you come to Singapore alone?” 

He could have sworn he just saw red hair.  

* * *

_Don’t panic!_ Sansa whispered to herself, feeling the panic start to rise. _Oh drat, oh darn!_ Harry had seen her, she was certain. His eyes had scanned the room just as she’d thought to duck but there had definitely been a split-second as their eyes had locked... 

“Ma’am?” The Maître D’ had stopped and turned around to see where the hell his customer had wandered off to, only to find her crouched directly behind him. 

“Please don’t move!” Sansa begged.  

“Ma’am… what are you doing, ma’am? Have you lost something?” 

“No… no…” Sansa whispered. “I need you to help me get out of here!” 

“Pardon?” 

“ _I need—_ “ she whispered more urgently. 

“The exit is the same as the entrance, Ma’am,” pointed out the Maître D’ in a voice he reserved especially for foreign staff and stupid poodles. “It’s right this way…” 

“I know, I know!” Sansa hissed. “I’m trying to avoid being seen!” She dared to peek between the row of manicured topiary and gasped. 

“He’s standing!” she panicked, and the Maître D’ naturally turned around to look. “Don’t look!” she hissed at him. “Please look away — act normal!" 

The Maître D’ rolled his eyes. Yet another young harlot, he decided. Either she was hiding from the wife whose husband she was stealing, or from her own cuckold of her husband, he was sure. Although the cuckold in question was rather young and fit, mused the seasoned Maître D'. But then, usually these hot young things like to go after the moneyed and decrepit. But Varys is ever the professional. “What would you have me do?” 

“Could you please…” she stage-whispered, “just sloooowly walk backwards and retrace your steps until I get out!” She looked up and saw something else that made her eyes widen. “Now!” she begged, voice high and frantic.  

A flicker of irritation crossed Varys’s face but he could ill afford to show how vexed he truly was. With a long-suffering sigh that he swiftly turned into a cough, he moved gingerly backwards, bumping into the silly girl almost immediately. 

“Sorry!” she mouthed, and scooted further back. Varys jumped when he felt her hands on his hips suddenly, subtly angling his posterior so as to better hide her person. 

_The cheek!_ he fumed. He was still on his soup diet and this was _most_ discouraging.  

Petyr entered the restaurant to find the strange and enchanting sight of Sansa’s toned yoga ass backing up towards him like an articulated truck in reverse. She was hunched over and half duck-walking backwards in sky-high Jimmy Choos, while clinging on to a portly and utterly put out Maître D’. They looked like a shitty pantomime horse, honestly. 

Sansa visibly jumped as soon as they rounded the corner and Petyr helped her gently to her feet. She turned into him and collapsed into his arms. 

“Harry!” she squeaked by way of explanation, as if it wasn’t obvious enough. Petyr mouthed his thanks over her shoulder to the Maître D’, who bowed stiffly in acknowledgement before sweeping back importantly to his station. 

* * *

“And you’re sure he saw you?” prodded Petyr gently, sweetening her tea with an extra teaspoon of sugar. Sansa nodded glumly.

“You know when someone looks at you from the other end of the room, and your eyes meet and lock?” She sighed resignedly. “I’m pretty sure he saw me.” 

“But what did he see, exactly?” Petyr nudged. “Did he look away? Or did he see you duck behind the plant boxes?”  

“No,” Sansa decidedly eventually. “He didn’t see me hide. Something or someone was distracting him and it all happened so quick.” 

“So he didn’t see the rest of it?”  

And Sansa shook her head. 

“Not the Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon move you pulled with the head waiter?” he teased and was secretly relieved when that elicited a sheepish smile. _Good,_ he thought. _She’s not fallen apart._

“We were very discreet,” she volunteered. She hoped. 

“Good,” pronounced Petyr, as if satisfied. He pulled her hand into his lap and gave it a quick squeeze.  

“The fact that he saw you isn’t a bad thing at all,” he mused. “We can use that. We will turn it to our advantage.” And Sansa sighed in relief. 

It was amazing, really. In the weeks building up to this, Sansa had fully expected to see Harrold and start crying all over again. And yet here she was, sitting in their hotel room, sipping hot tea, and talking so calmly with darling Petyr. Sansa shook her head. _Unbelievable,_ she marvelled. 

Finally seeing Harrold... and then, of course, that woman beside him in that long dress must be his new girlfriend. And Margee! What was going on there! 

_OMG, Margee!_ She turned to Petyr, suddenly excited. 

“Margee was at the table!” And Petyr looked surprised. 

“Margaery?” His eyebrows furrowed. Surely she hadn't strayed off-script and gone Rambo on their plans? What the hell was she doing there! 

“Mm-hmm!” Sansa dunked her shortbread biscuit in her sweet milky tea and beamed. “She was there, with Harrold and his bitch, _and Mr T!_ And Petyr,” she lowered her voice confidentially. “You won’t _believe_ how old he is!" 

* * *

Just silence in the Bentley as each of them stared out their respective windows, though neither was taking in the passing scenery. The gap between them was large enough for Margaery to nestle her humongous tote comfortably. But it was a gap all the same.  

The true gulf between them sat wide and yawning and silent.  

Margaery's mind was buzzing, though — a thousand interconnecting thoughts diving and weaving into one another. Harrold. And Cersei. And did Tywin always know, or was he just as surprised? Has he figured out who Harrold is? Did he really think Harrold so utterly daft that he truly mistook Margaery for someone else at first glance? 

Tywin had been awfully quiet. The whole Alayne/Marge thing never came up again after Cersei's skepticism. But Margaery had dared to glance at his face in the confusion and she could not read it. His gaze was straight. He had not looked at her once.  

And then the business of taking her to a family lunch so fraught with familial tension. What was the meaning of _that_ , Margaery really wanted to know. Did he honestly think it was going to be civil? Or was he using Margaery as a social buffer and warning to his daughter to mind her manners, except it completely backfired? Cersei was obviously a piece of work, and even the whole thing between her and fucking Harry made very little sense.  

Or... perhaps it was something else entirely. Had Tywin paraded Margaery and her youth in front of his daughter, as some kind of red rag to a bullheaded child? Was it some kind of power play?  

Was Margaery just convenient?  

Or did he really hope to introduce his daughter to the woman he'd been seeing regularly of late. The one that he's been choosing to spend time with. 

And oh gawd, the name. Why the hell had she used Sansa's pen name! But Margaery knew just why and the reminder coloured her cheeks once more. What he must think of her, if and when he finds out. If he asked her point blank after this. 

They entered the suite through the formal entrance — an unusual thing in itself. The usual thing would have been for Margaery to help herself through the side entrance and glide through the dining room while casually shedding articles of clothing before throwing open the double doors to their bedroom and jumping Tywin — quite literally — and without a stitch of clothing on, save her panties.  

But here they were instead, in the formal parlour. Tywin helped himself to the decanter and poured her a glass without asking. And she would have minded except she hadn’t realised how much she was dying for one until he handed it to her wordlessly. 

They sat at right angles to each other, still not touching, until finally she sighed. 

“Any questions?” she asked resignedly and waited. Her patience lasted all of twenty seconds. “If you don’t,” she remarked, “I have some for you.” 

“Please,” he invited and the tone was neither harsh nor cynical. Her eyebrows perked up in surprise. 

“Cersei… and you. Could you tell me what that was all about?” 

And at that, something seemed to finally break within the man. He leaned back heavily in his chair, a posture eerily similar to one in defeat. Margaery watched as Tywin rubbed the bridge of his nose hard, his eyes squeezed shut as if the very question brought on a migraine. 

“Never have children,” he finally advised and weakly cracked a version of a smile. He sighed and when Margaery leant her leg forward so it brushed his own, he finally spoke. 

“Cersei has always been bloody-minded. And there is still a part of me that’s almost proud of that. I abhor weakness of character — people who _drift_ , who allow themselves to get tossed about by winds of change. No foresight. And therefore no bloody future. 

"But I also hate foolishness. Waste, when it comes to natural talents and potential. Stubbornness that costs lives. I don’t care if the hard choices have to be made — that’s a given when you have great responsibilities. But what I cannot stand is ill-advised, ill-conceived plans borne of hubris and the village idiot’s sense of infallibility.” 

Tywin clenched his jaw now. Margaery waited, her breathing shallow. 

“It’s been just one thing after another with her. And not just her, but Jaime…” She watched as he worked his jaw again. Something like fury and disdain crossed his face. Something like sadness too. 

And then the unexpected that winded her.  

“Sometimes,” he admitted now, seeing into a distance she has no part of. “Sometimes I really miss Joanna.” 

He had mentioned the ex-wife before, in passing. It had only been the once and the way it came up, Margaery knew better than to pry any further. At the time, she had been eager to brush aside the topic of former spouses, satisfied that he was unmarried at least.  

But the way he said he missed her... _Joanna_. Marge should be understanding, she knew. She should be clucking her tongue and making soothing platitudes. But all she felt instead was a slashing, phantom pain followed closely by self-recrimination. _They both have pasts,_ Margaery reminded herself fiercely. She had been married too. Twice, if anyone was counting.  

He turned and looked at Margaery now, and something in his expression had softened. “I haven’t thought about her in a while,” he admitted now, voice low and soft. 

“Do you think about her often?” 

“After her death?” he mused. “Tyrion’s, what, thirty-four now? So thirty-four years.” And Margaery’s eyes widened. So not divorced. Widowed. And by the sounds of it, perhaps at childbirth or when his youngest was just born. Something twinged in her then. How horrible! Poor woman… and Tywin! Father to three, while holding down an empire, no doubt. Or something like it. She stiffened at the realisation that he probably always loved his wife. 

And who could hold a candle to a dead woman, honestly. Not the twenty-seven-year-old Twinkie here on her holiday of indefinite length. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be. It was a long time ago. What I meant to say is… I’d long buried any thoughts about Jo. Made myself not dwell on it soon after the funeral, all in case I turned into any number of men I’d seen wallowing in the past. And then everything they’d built goes to shit. And so I simply got on with the business, preserved the Lannister legacy. Expanded it, even. And it worked, too.” He smirked, looking around the suite, “as you can see."  

“But you think of her now?” 

“Only recently.” His face, his expression was shuttering again and Margaery couldn’t read him. Infuriating man.  

They drank in silence again, the topic apparently laid to rest for now. And then — 

“This friend of yours,” Tywin asked, looking at the bottom of his glass distractedly. “The one you travelled here with, the one with the cheating husband…” He raised an eyebrow and Margaery knew the gig was up. “Perchance that had nothing to do with the company we kept at lunchtime?” 

“Harrold is the fucking fucker, yes. And your daughter is his secret twat — ‘scuse my French.” 

“It is excused.” He snorted softly, annoyed. “In the last ten years, I’ve had to deal with the nonsense concerning my daughter’s private life more than any father would want to in his lifetime, believe me. Secret twat…” He huffed with vague amusement. 

“Did you know?” Margaery finally blurted, the suspense killing her finally. “Did you always know that Cersei’s boyfriend was actually my best friend’s husband? Was this some kind of… I don’t know… reunion? Some grand reveal of the sleuthing you’ve done? I just… it’s a damn weird coincidence, that's all.” 

“I was thinking exactly the same myself.” 

“You think _I_ did this? I didn’t do this,” retorted Margaery, getting fired up. “What sick, twisted person would pull something like this!” 

“And yet…” Tywin reminded blandly, “you gave me a different name.”  

Margaery whitened instantly. She sat up straighter, pulling her legs in so they no longer nudged against his own. 

“How long have you known?” she whispered. 

“Since the dive trip in Indonesia.” 

She gasped in horror. “That long!” 

“It was partly by accident. You were sleeping, and there was a small issue with your passport visa that I wanted to overcome without bothering you.” 

“So you know everything?” Her marriages. Her divorces. Her borrowed wealth and her unspent potential… She felt the tears prickle the back of her eyes.  

In all these months in this suite, Margaery Tyrell had never felt more naked and exposed than she did right now, fully clothed before Tywin in this parlour.  

“I know some things,” Tywin admitted. “You cannot blame a man for digging deeper after finding out you have a different name.” So matter-of-fact, and yet there was something almost wistful in the way he said it.  

“What else do you want to know, Tywin.” 

“The truth." 

* * *

"Will you stop fidgeting!"

"Sorry, love..."  

Harrold tried to keep his focus, to be very much in the Now with Cersei. _Be Present,_ he remembered Sansa always saying. _Because the present is a gift._ And at the sound of her voice in his head, he turned around once more to stare at the plant boxes near the toilets. He could have sworn he had seen red hair there just a moment ago. 

He was going mad. Red hair behind plant boxes the whole afternoon. Was this the guilt talking? 

He was so tempted to ask for his phone back. Cersei had it locked somewhere and since they were going to be together all this week, it had made complete sense at the time. But now that he needed to place a few strategic calls, to perhaps ring home at some ungodly hour when Sansa was probably asleep and hang up when she finally answered... at least that would be a huge relief. 

But oh god, what if she didn't answer? That might be even _worse_. 

He'll have to steal away later, he told himself. Make an international call from a public phone (do they still have those?) or the concierge desk when Cersei was tired out with her mandatory four o'clock swim. He'll be sure to seal in that early sleep with an exciting fuck after dinner.  

On and on harried Harrold thought and strategised. He'd have to get the nice concierge, the one who unfortunately didn't like Cersei but didn't much mind him. Hopefully this time, Cersei would remember to uncuff him from the bed before falling asleep, not like last night.  

He needn't have bothered, really. As soon as Cersei stepped through to the pool, he saw them. His own wife, sitting next to a man he did not know but who seemed thoroughly engrossed in the business of lotioning up her back as she held up her thick red hair for him. 

She was wearing a bikini. Sansa never wore bikinis!  

Harrold Hardyng stood rooted to the spot, thoroughly conflicted.  

Both men watched as Sansa rose from the deck chair and toed off her thongs. Her legs were tanned — tanner than Harrold had ever seen them, for usually they turned splotchy in the heat.  

_How often does that man oil her up!_ Harrold wondered now in consternation. 

Meanwhile, Lotion Man sat back in their shared deck chair and stretched out as if to soak in the view. Harrold could make out his teeth from here, he was grinning that hard. Sansa strolled to the edge of the pool and then walked the length of the springboard. She waited until she thought she had the space and when she was satisfied, she bounced on her tippy toes — once, twice — before executing a beautiful clean dive only to surface ten seconds later just twenty feet from him. 

“Harry!” she squeaked in surprise and then completely flummoxed him by cracking a wide smile.  

“Sansa?” 

“I thought I saw you!” she laughed. “Stay right there, I’m coming out!” 

And Harry Hardyng gaped like a fool as his wife swam to the edge before pushing herself up easily, turning over to rest her toned arse on the ledge before sweeping her long legs over. It was like watching a mermaid emerge from fucking Atlantis. 

She looked even more amazing now, standing before him. Fiery hair dripping, rivulets of water streaming down her body, down her arms, even between her boo— 

Sansa threw her arms around his neck and gave him a squeeze. “I’m so glad we’ve finally bumped into each other! Oh gosh, I can hardly _wait_ to tell you what’s been going on since you left..." 

“Harry?” cut in Cersei’s voice. Cersei was never shrill, but the quieter she got, the deadlier she could be. Especially when she gritted her teeth and said stuff. 

“Cece!” And Harry’s voice trembled just a touch as his foxy forty-four-year-old mistress sauntered over to coolly survey his now-sexy twenty-six-year-old wife. 

“And you are…” 

“Sansa Hardyng,” Sansa positively beamed. “Harrold’s wife!”  

Harrold Hardyng groaned aloud. He wanted to die, he did. But there was more. 

“Oh no sweetie, oh don’t look so scared…” soothed Sansa, holding his hand up and patting the top of it like she were consoling a little old man. “I know you’re seeing someone — nice to meet you! — and at first I got all sad... and then I got a little mad... and then I met someone too!” 

She was dragging them now, leading Harry around the pool like an excited child dying to show off the waterslide. Cersei refused to hold her hand and to Harrold’s astonishment, Sansa simply shrugged. “Suit yourself,” she chirped and before he knew it, he was there at their deck chair — the one right next to the hut that Cersei always booked — and staring down at Lotion Man, still smirking from before. 

_She was overdoing it slightly,_ thought Petyr, taking in the flushed cheeks, the pitch of her voice. Sansa was running on adrenaline and this was hardly what they had rehearsed. She was supposed to be nonchalant sophistication. Instead he got cute Energiser bunny on the wrong voltage. 

Still, he supposed they could work with it. Sansa was all health and youth and vitality and breathless adorableness. Harrold’s bitch, on the other hand, looked like she had just drunk wine that had turned into vinegar.  

“Harry,” Sansa was saying now, “meet Petyr. Petyr… This. Is. Harry!” She ended it with such flourish.  

“G’day,” mumbled Harry.  

“Pleasure,” grinned Petyr, getting up. “And you must be Harrold’s new woman…?” 

“Cersei,” Cersei volunteered sullenly. 

“A real pleasure…” Cersei stared at his proffered hand with undisguised contempt. But Petyr merely raised an eyebrow before pulling Sansa to him gently, slipping a possessive arm around her waist. 

Sansa giggled. 

“See?” she smiled happily at Harrold. “We’ve both found old people to love!”  

Petyr bit his tongue and tightened his grip around her delicious waist. _Minx_.  

Cersei narrowed her eyes, and Harrold knew that look only too well. 

“We should go,” he mumbled now. “Good seeing you, Sansa.” 

“No, I’m fine,” returned Cersei silkily. She smiled at Petyr and Sansa. “I always swim my laps, you see. Habit from young, drilled in by my father. I find it’s a great workout right before a fuck, don’t you agree?” 

Petyr shrugged just as the words died in Sansa’s throat.  

“Not if the workout is greater in bed,” he replied with a hint of a leer. “When it gets that energetic, why bother leaving the room at all, eh beautiful?” And he turned Sansa's chin to face him. _Hold on,_ he willed her. _Don’t let her win. She’s testing us. She’s testing you._

“Well, you’re out of the room now,” pointed out Cersei. “Got boring?" 

“Sansa needed to cool down,” Petyr grinned, warming up. “And she’s never boring.”  

Cersei laughed mirthlessly. “Not from what I’ve heard.” 

Petyr squeezed Sansa tighter and thankfully she didn’t rise to the bait. _Poor girl is probably too hurt,_ Petyr thought. He hoped Cersei wasn’t getting to her. 

“She’s full of talent, is our Sansa. _Great_ at yoga,” he volunteered. “She’s very… _bendy_.” 

Sansa pinked up instantly and Petyr laughed. “God, I love how responsive you are,” he murmured seductively into her ear, loud enough for Harrold to hear.  

Harrold looked a little green. 

“Well,” Cersei smiled brightly. “Since everyone’s so wonderfully progressive and _adult_ ,” she bit off the T, “let’s have dinner!” 

“Wonderful idea,” agreed Petyr smoothly. “How’s tonight?” And Sansa started to cough. 

Cersei looked at Sansa knowingly, a sly smile touching her lips. “Tonight is perfect. Seven?” 

“Make it eight.” 

“Yes…” Cersei mused. “Eight. Have to leave some time to… freshen up before dinner, after all.” And Cersei slipped one hand down Harrold’s arse while the other brushed across his chest suggestively. 

Sansa’s eyes widened and so did Cersei’s smile.  

“Come, Harry.” And Cersei turned and flicked her hand up to Harrold, as if he were a dog called to follow. 

“I thought you wanted to swim, Cece!” 

“Changed my mind,” was the lofty reply and together, Petyr and Sansa watched as Cersei led Harry back around the pool. 

Petyr knew, he just knew, that this was far from over. 

“Kiss me,” he suddenly said, and Sansa whipped her head around. 

“Wha?” 

“You need to kiss me now. Cersei’s not buying it and any moment now, she’s going to turn around to check. Just a familiar kiss on the—“ 

And Sansa turned to face him fully, slipping her arm around his neck as she tilted her head and brought his lips to touch her own.  

And then she opened her mouth. 

_Fucking hell!_

But he was kissing her back now, his arms slipping naturally around her waist, her back, his tongue probing deep and hungry. She tasted like everything he’d been imagining for weeks. So damn good, _so damn good!_  He groaned. He kissed her and the blood seemed at once to drain to his cock and yet to set his face on fire. He felt like his body was melting into hers and the room — what room! — the great outdoors was spinning round and round and round… 

They broke suddenly, both breathing hard, eyes round and disbelieving.  

“Like that?” she asked anxiously, breathlessly. “Do you think she bought it?” 

 And all he could bloody well do was nod. 


	12. When it rains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the previous chapter of Sabbatical...
> 
> Margaery sits through the Family Lunch from Hell and ends up kicking someone... Sansa hides behind Varys's arse... Tywin brings up the dead wife and his Secret Knowledge of All Things Margaery... everyone tries to go swimming and end up sounding like sharks... and Petyr & Sansa FINALLY DO THE KISSY KISSY. But it apparently doesn't count.
> 
> All caught up? Let's foxtrot!

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162326344@N04/43945629802/in/dateposted-public/)

Somehow, they managed to muddle through the rest of the afternoon. They had waited a full ten minutes after Cersei and Harry had cleared out from the pool area before Sansa had shone him her brightest smile and then begged off politely to flee to their room. 

And Petyr… well. Petyr had swum until he was gooey. And then he’d changed and hit the gym until he'd fucking _hurt_. It was either that, or marching right upstairs and embarrassing himself by snogging her for real and for keeps, or worse — accidentally poking into her repeatedly with his furious erection.

It was almost seven when he finally returned to their room and by then, he could feel the change in Sansa. In his absence, she seemed to finally calm and remember what she was supposed to exude. Poise. Elegance. A certain _je nais se quoi_ with the smallest tinge of _fuck you_. Petyr was relieved. He hadn't much looked forward to confronting her about her hyper effervescence at the pool. And now there seemed to be little need to belabour the point.

Neither of them brought up that searing kiss either.

The only correction he ventured to make was when she eventually emerged from the bathroom wearing the sequinned black halter-neck flirt of a dress. One tug at that cocktease of a knot, and the flimsy little thing could shimmy down her body in a whisper of time.  

“Your eyes…” he murmured instead, ignoring his dick as usual. “May I?”

And she sat perfectly still, her mouth parted in a quietly astonished O as he took the palette of colours from her hand and proceeded to work on her eyes. Silence as he worked quietly. She hardly breathed and in truth, neither did he. He took his time with it, leaning in when he couldn’t quite see, gently smudging the smokey grays across her eyelids with his fingertips. He blamed the poor lighting in the room, of course. There was little choice — he had to stand _so_ close. She smelled of musk and flowers. 

She was so still, so beautiful, so porcelain perfect. And when she closed her eyes for him, all he could think about was her mouth searching his by the glittering pool...

“Better,” he finally pronounced after a time and he watched as Sansa stared at herself in the mirror, barely recognising the vixen in the reflection. 

“Where did you learn how to do that!” 

And Petyr shrugged, looking at the clock. There really wasn’t very much time left before their dinner for that sort of chit-chat.

* * *

They were going to miss dinner at this rate. Tywin had booked one of the private dining rooms on the 69th floor of the Swissôtel just across the street. But neither of them was ready and willing for any sort of culinary decadence at present. _Such_ a waste of a spectacular wraparound view, though. 

It had been a strange sort of halting confessional for the last three hours, punctuated by long bouts of silence as they sat facing each other. A Mexican standoff between the stern Englishman and the breezy Australian woman.  

The easiest thing to do would have been to shag the hours away and conveniently forget, sweeping weeks of muted distrust and lust and budding who-the-fuck-knows underneath the antique squillion-dollar Persian rug. And yet somehow Margaery sensed that such a shagging would have done something to them both. It was a cheapening somehow.

Because now, she felt like she was on the precipice of something. She just didn’t know what. 

“What is this plan with Sansa,” Tywin eventually asked, staring straight ahead at a point on the light cream wall. “I take it that the plan is for the two to meet.”

“Something like that.”

“And she is somehow to woo her husband back to Australia and away from the clutches of…” He paused to clip the words precisely, “… his secret twat?”

“That’s the general idea.”  

He hummed, unimpressed. Margaery suddenly didn’t blame him. It did seem rather harebrained when he put it like that.

“And supposing this all works. That your friend Sansa recovers her — frankly — insipid husband’s affections. Then what.”

“Well I guess… they’ll fly back.”

“And you?”

“Well…” Margaery kept her expression neutral even as her heartbeat started to ratchet. “I guess I’ll be going back with them.”

He turned to look at her then.

“Do you want to?”

_Are you asking?_ she wanted to know. But the words were stuck in her throat. Margaery didn’t know where she stood with him. She never did… But then she shook her head obstinately. That was a lie. After the polo… in the silky privacy of this rented Shag Mahal… in the cherished bliss of the dusk and dawn of their recent days, Margaery had almost been sure she knew. 

But Tywin was staring at her now and the calm he exuded only seemed to cool the room to ice.

“I think I should,” she said instead.

* * *

_The best lies, they say, are half-truths._

_Talavera_ , the Spanish steakhouse at the Stamford, had a waitlist that was discouraging to most of its plebeian members but at the drop of Cersei’s name, every knee had bowed. And so the four of them — newly reacquainted wife and husband and their respective shag bunnies — soon found themselves in the most exclusive corner of _Talavera’s_ famous patio, affording them unimpeded views of the golfing green, the fairy lights twinkling against the starless night sky, each artfully woven through the climbing roses wrapped around the wooden trellis arcade overhead. 

Over stuffed peppadew peppers and Iberian pork shoulder, decadent lobster paella and _Talavera's_ trademark prime ribeye coupled ( _of course!_ ) with sides of Cabrales blue cheese, heirloom carrots drizzled in tamarind honey, those grilled maitake mushrooms that Sansa adored... they chitted and they chatted about the sweaty climate, the tourist traps they deign to haunt, the way the locals think and speak and work, the shopping that had been done. 

Nothing too spicy yet, which would surprise Petyr except he never missed the territorial way in which Cersei would clench Harrold’s hand whenever he dared to ask his own wife a toothless question. Or how very soon after such a harmless interview would Cersei's wandering bejewelled hand slip under the tablecloth and unsettle poor Harry so. 

Petyr, in turn, kept his smile smug and knowing, kept his arm draped casually over the back of Sansa’s chair between each course of their shared meal; kept his gaze attentive and indulgent whenever Sansa spoke, his eyes drifting lazily down to her lips for Harrold and Cersei to wonder and fume over respectively. 

_This is good,_ Petyr thought. _Better than good._  It was as if all his lessons, like pieces of a grand puzzle, had finally slipped into place: Sansa had _owned_ the entrance, swanning into the restaurant hauntingly gorgeous, with her endless legs and her smokey eyes. She had been sure to lower the register of her voice this time, kissing stiff Cersei and awkward Harry each on both of sides of their faces, careful to linger just a fraction as her nose grazed the jawline of her astonished husband. Harry’s eyes had been saucers, much to Petyr’s amusement. The man could scarcely recognise his wife — and even less so when Petyr had chosen then to casually pull Sansa back to his side, his arm wrapping easily around her waist as if he’d done this a thousand times before. 

But now they were all refusing the dessert menu, imploring the wait staff instead for yet another _porrón_ of Sangria, the previous bottle of Garnacha rosé already loosening their tongues and in Cersei’s case, lengthening her claws. 

Petyr kept his touch light, tracing small circles down Sansa’s back, coaxing her silently with small nudges and soft smiles to lean against him fully, manoeuvring her into the proper posture of a couple newly besotted. Sansa smiled then, the very picture of elegance and quiet contentment. 

“And how did you meet each other?” Cersei was cooing now, her voice deceptively soft even as her stare could shred steel. Harrold and Cersei were carefully draped over one another, a mirror image of Petyr and Sansa.

“Would you like to answer this one, sweetling?” Petyr asked as Sansa inclined her swan-like neck so as to face him. He helped her sit up a little straighter and watched in fascination as she beamed back at Cersei.

“Well,” she started, flicking her eyes at Harry. “When this man didn’t return home after two months and I had no idea if he was still alive because he never called—" She leaned over to Harry now and smacked his hand. “That was quite naughty of you, by the way! I worried,” she reproached him, tutting.

“I uh…”

“It was Margaery’s idea to come find you. We knew that the last transaction you made on our shared account was in Singapore, so we started there. She said she had a friend who could put us up for a while. And so we came.” Sansa turned and looked at Petyr now, her expression visibly softening. “And that’s when I met Petyr,” she smiled.

_Man, was she good!_ Petyr thought, smirking proudly even as his insides started to flutter strangely. For his part, he lifted her hand to his lips and brushed them over her knuckles.

“How adorable,” Cersei simpered with venom. Harry was tellingly quiet, and Petyr leaned back in his chair and stretched out, shrugging slightly at Harry as if to say, _well you know how these things can happen._ His grin grew wider when Harry barely managed to eke out a lopsided smile in response.

“It was rather,” Sansa went on to say, still looking at Petyr, her tone a little surprised. “I mean, I didn’t set out to like him or anything. I was really just focused on finding _you,_ Harry. But I hadn’t a clue where to start and it was Petyr in the end who saw you one day—“

“Quite by accident,” Petyr cut in smoothly as he faced Harrold now, almost apologetic as he explained. “I was at the beer garden in Emerald Hill enjoying an ice cold and there you were. I couldn’t believe my eyes.”

Sansa nodded gravely, even as Harrold squirmed. “That was the first time I found out about you, Cersei.”

Cersei shrugged and smiled. “Nothing personal, little dove. But you know… I didn’t take anything that didn’t want to be taken. I’m sure Petyr understands what I’m talking about, hmm?” Her eyes locked onto his then, emerald clashing with grey-green. Her beatific smile widened enough to flash her teeth. Petyr glinted his pearly whites in return, though his eyes remained cold. He tightened his grip around Sansa’s shoulders, squeezing her reflexively.

But if Sansa was stung by Cersei’s words, she didn't show it this time.

“Petyr was _amazing._ He IS amazing,” she smiled again at him, her eyes warmer and bluer than ever. 

And for a moment, just a little teensy moment, Petyr allowed himself to believe her flawless act, drinking her words in. Something in his chest flopped about again and he swallowed, smiling back at her. If he looked a little besotted right now, he told himself, it was all for a good cause. 

Harrold cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Cersei is pretty something too,” he finally volunteered, the sentiment falling flat. Petyr broke his gaze with Sansa to smile blankly at Harrold.   

“Come again?”

“Cece,” he insisted, flicking his eyes nervously at Cersei’s narrowed ones. “It happened really sudden, you know. I didn’t plan to do this to you, Sansa. Honest!”

“How did it happen, Harry?” Sansa was asking now, her curiosity finally getting the better of her even as Petyr tensed, protective and unsure. As if sensing his anxiety, Cersei turned to stare at him now and he willed his shoulders to relax, his body language to exude polite curiosity and insouciant nonchalance. 

“We uh… we um…”

“I found him wandering about, looking like a little lost boy in an exclusive club in Thailand that I frequent.” Cersei’s smile turned coquettish, which only made Petyr wary. “I became his teacher.”

“Teacher?” Sansa repeated, looking confused.

“Why, yes,” Cersei purred. “Had the wooden ruler and everything. And you turned out to be a _very_ good student, didn’t you darling? A+!” 

“Let’s not talk so much about that, maybe? Dear?” begged Harry now, looking alarmed.

“What was the name of that club again, honey?” went on Cersei as if she hadn’t heard him. “Oh yes, I remember now,” she laughed softly, narrowing her eyes viciously. “Adorable, really. _Whipped Cream_.”

Harry actually whimpered as Sansa went stiff in Petyr’s arms. Cersei grinned and make a jerking motion with her hand as if brandishing a riding crop. _Wh-tsh!_  

Petyr did the only thing he knew he had to do. He threw his head back and laughed. 

“Is that place still going?” he smirked, a supercilious grin on his face. “Dear me. It was passé about eight years ago, I thought. Nice to know they’re still doing alright, I suppose. The old horny nostalgics probably keep it afloat.” He smiled genially at the both of them. “Do you dance there, Cersei?”

And this time, it was Cersei’s turn to bristle. “Don’t be ridiculous! Of course not,” she snapped. Petyr shrugged.

“I’m not judging. I’ve met an abundance of people with interesting second jobs. You’d be quite an exotic in Thailand, you know.”

“I don’t work at all!” Cersei hissed now, tilting her head back at the club as if to remind him that she comes from money. 

“My apologies,” Petyr grinned, holding his hands up in a peacekeeping gesture. “I misunderstood.”

_You most certainly did not, you fucker!_ glowered Cersei silently, even as Harrold reached over and stroked her hand anxiously. 

But it was enough. Sansa shifted beside Petyr now and he watched her with a mixture of pride and apprehension as she gazed unflinchingly at her husband.

“Do you like that sort of thing now?” Sansa asked, tone polite. And all Harrold could do was squirm some more, his words all but failing him.

“Huh,” replied Sansa after a moment’s silence. “Well I guess that explains a few things.” 

And to Petyr’s amazement, she sat back in her chair and looked at Petyr with a small smile. “We don’t need anything like that to be happy, do we Petyr.”

“No we don’t,” Petyr smiled, bringing her telltale trembling hand to his lips for another affectionate kiss.  _Attagirl_ , he willed her. _Dig deep and burrow out._

“Your missus,” Petyr explained now to Harrold, “is quite a delight in bed. Such a wonderful imagination. It must be all that writing she does. You were a lucky, lucky man.”

“I—“ replied Harrold, thoroughly confused.

“That’s right,” Sansa chimed in, as if suddenly remembering something. “I _am_ imaginative! You’ll never guess, Harry! That writer’s block I’ve been whinging to you about for months? I’m cured! And it’s all Petyr’s doing.”

“What?” Both men turn to stare at Sansa now.

“I’m writing again! And Petyr’s my starring hero,” Sansa announced boldly, even as her neck started to turn a beetroot red. “It’s true. It’s his beard and all. I like his beard. I-I like the friction…” Even redder now. "He’s so good to me… but he can also be so very, _very_ bad.” 

And for the first time in his life, Petyr had never wanted to read a bodice-ripper more. Cover to fucking cover.

“Well isn’t that charming,” Cersei replied, sounding thoroughly bored. And yet somehow this latest revelation from Sansa seemed to finally make its mark with Harry. Petyr watched him closely now, noting the slump of his shoulders, the flicker of emotions warring behind his otherwise vacuously handsome face. 

Interesting. 

“Sans,” Harry piped up suddenly, his voice slightly tremulous. “Let’s have dinner tomorrow, shall we? Just you and I?”

“Really?” Sansa asked, taken aback, suddenly unsure. 

“Just the both of you?” Cersei repeated, her expression incredulous. “Is that really necessary, Harry?” 

Harrold nodded. “I need t-talk to my wife. Alone.”

Sansa took a deep shuddering breath that Petyr could feel, his hand pressed against her back. He had stopped breathing himself, his entire body tensed as he waited.

“What do you want to talk about, Harry?” Sansa almost whispered. 

Harry stared at the woman he married seven years ago, the adoring wife of his youth. A whole other lifetime ago, really. “Well, to quote _Lipp!_ ,” Harry explained earnestly, "I think it’s time we talked about the terms for our conscientious uncoupling."

* * *

She was pacing the room now, a poor imitation of a lion but no less pissy.

“So what was it, then?” Margaery finally asked. “You knew all this time about me, you dug up all my crap? Why didn’t you say anything?”

Tywin was aggravating calm. “What would have been the point.”

_What would—_ Margaery stared at him in disbelief. 

“This coming from the man who had his hand around my throat in a totally non-sexy way when he thought I was a corporate spy?!” Margaery hated how her voice went high towards the end there. She didn’t do shrieky. Margaery modulated her voice as much as she modulated her selfies on _Lipp!_

She was almost shrieky now. But she was also on a roll.

“So how much did you find out?” she pressed. “The marriages?”

“Yes.”

“The divorces?”

“Yes.”

“And the settlements?” Her eyes flashed, daring him to say what she feared he thought of her now. “I did pretty well out of them, didn’t I.”

He sounded almost bored. “You did alright, I suppose.”

That stopped her in her tracks. Margaery blinked. She did not understand him, not even a little now! How could he be so suddenly blasé about it all! She _knew_ what she must look like: a grasping serial monogamist, building her investment portfolio one failed marriage at a time. Now sinking her manicured talons into a self-made man not likely to last past her own fiftieth birthday, even if he did seem to behave most times like he were a god…

“I’m glad you’re so zen about it all,” she managed at last to say without sounding bitter.

He took another sip of his whiskey. They were both drinking on empty stomachs. Never a good thing.

“Margaery…” She was still unused to hearing her real name on his lips. Tywin's tone was so quiet, but it made her suddenly bristle. “I’m _zen_ , as you say, because…” He changed his mind then —which was unlike him, she knew. Most of the time, Tywin only spoke when he knew exactly what he was going to say. 

_Stay. Sit on my face. Don’t go. Have breakfast with me. You are a very beautiful woman. The morning sun suits you. Let’s fuck. Come here, I'll hold you. Tell me what you like._

_Stay with me._

"Why should all that bother me?”

“Come again?” Margaery asked, her mind not quite following even as something in her tummy sank like a stone. 

“Isn’t this—" He tilted his head towards their bedroom, “just supposed to be a temporary thing?”

_Well fuck_ , thought Margaery. _That hurt._  

“You’re right, of course.” She sounded almost chipper now. So matter-of-fact. “Makes sense. We’re close to the finish line. Sansa and Harrold are in the same club, so things will progress as planned. And if it doesn’t, chances are I’ll still have to leave. Even sooner if things between them go to poo, I’d say. So why don’t we just cut to the chase and end things now as well.”

Tywin’s jaw clenched. “Is that what you really want?”

Margaery shrugged, flipping her hair over her shoulder. Vaguely aware that her sky had been held up thus far by five twiggy little chopsticks and she was now blithely breaking each of those skinny fuckers one by one.

“Why not?” It amazed her, really. She sounded so ironically rational. “I have, what, a few weeks, tops? And I haven’t really taken the opportunity to do all the shopping I’ve wanted to do. Never really tapped into the sugardaddy potential here, hey?”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed.

“Careful, Margaery.”

“Or what?” Reckless abandon. She felt another chopstick snap. “You said it yourself. This ain’t nothin' more than a temporary thing. It’s been good fun. Good to leave on a high note.”

“It doesn’t have to follow that we end things right this minute. You’re being childish.”

She laughed. “What, that little fact about me didn’t come up in your dossier?”

Okay, so that was childish. 

“Look Tywin,” she sighed, suddenly tired. “You called it. And now I’m inclined to agree. So what’s the problem now? Let’s end this—”

“IT ENDS WHEN I SAY IT ENDS.”  

“No, Tywin!” Margaery shot back. “It ends when one of us leaves! _That’s_ how it works. That’s how it’s always worked! I should know! I’m good at leaving, don’t you already know that?!”

Silence as they stared at each other, Margaery’s chest rising and falling in rhythm with his. Even now, they were so much in sync. Even as they each stood apart, on wholly different planets.

“I misspoke” he finally said, his eyes still boring into hers except she wondered now if they had gentled. “A more prudent choice of words would have been… Don’t I get a say in what I think is in my best interest?”

“Oh Tywin,” Margaery couldn’t keep the quiver out of her voice now. “Don’t I get a choice in what is best for _me?_ ”

* * *

Things deteriorated very quickly after that. Cersei’s stony face had turned to triumph immediately, and Harrold had bumbled on, mumbling about “being adults” and “we’re all in better places now” and “we can do this amicably.”

And Sansa. Sansa had been absolutely breathtaking to watch, a picture of class and graciousness even as he felt her turn into brittle glass underneath his hand, still rubbing reassuring circles on her back as his mind warred with his heart. No sooner had husband and wife settled on the restaurant and the time for tomorrow’s dinner did Petyr make his apologies, citing a craving for a good night’s sleep, _nudge-nudge, wink-wink._

He could not get her away from that steakhouse soon enough. And as if the skies were in on it as well, they suddenly opened and started to bucket down.

The moment they entered their bedroom, Sansa fell apart.

“Oh my god!” she choked as she leaned against the nearest wall and started to gasp like she were running out of air. “He wants to leave me!”

“We don’t know that yet.”

“You heard him, Petyr! He wants to conscientiously uncouple from me and stay with Cersei and her teacher’s whip!” And at that, Sansa finally dissolved into tears as she slid slowly down the wall.

“Hush…” He was at her side at once, gathering her into his arms. The rain was pounding at the windows, “Come on, sweetling. Rally!”

“Rally?” She looked at him through her tears, her face wet and unhappy and incredulous. “We failed, Petyr. _I failed._ He took one look at me and gave up and chose _her_.”

“I refuse to believe that!” Petyr’s voice was hoarse. This was torture. Why the hell was he trying to help her hang on to the douchebag! And yet he knew there was something else underneath all this. Harrold had been deeply jealous. Petyr was willing to spend good money on it. And Petyr hated to lose, ironically. 

“He doesn’t want me,” she whispered brokenly.

“Then he’s a bloody fool,” Petyr replied thickly before his mouth descended on hers. 

There was a small, high  _mmph_ of surprise followed closely by a sweet sigh as Sansa melted back into him in surrender, her tongue seeking his impatiently, her hands bunching the front of his shirt with sudden need. He matched her desperation, kissing her harder as he pulled her flush against him. The room was spinning again and all he could do was taste her. He was intoxicated, truly.

And yet, this was the woman who’d just been crying over her husband.

He growled, pulling suddenly away, gripping her shoulders tight as he physically held her at arm’s length from him. 

“Nnngggg!” was all he could muster, the mind and the body at complete odds with one another.

“You’re right,” she whispered, her eyes huge, her chest rising and falling with each pant. “We shouldn’t.”

“We shouldn’t,” he agreed with his words even as his cock whined and his heart hurled abuses. 

“We shouldn’t,” she repeated before stepping once more into his embrace, and he crumpled like cheap paper as her lips crashed into his once more.

An arm snaked around her tiny waist, another reached up as his fingers slipped into her glorious hair, holding her fast to him as he devoured her, drinking in her little sighs. His hand brushed the top knot of her halter neck and he groaned into her mouth now at the new temptation.

_To pull, or not to pull._

Sansa was kissing him to forget her pain. 

Petyr decided he could live with that. 

It amazed him just how easily her dress could unravel before him. _Not so different from his current self-control, eh?_ a part of his mind now snarked. 

“Beautiful,” he whispered, breaking the kiss so he could lick and kiss a trail down from her jaw to her neck to her sweet collarbone…

There was a change in their collective centre of gravity as Sansa swooned into his arms and they both tumbled into the bed as his knees connected with the frame behind him. He flipped their positions deftly, pinning her as he continued his determined descent down her body, the rough hairs on his chin grazing her skin as he tasted his way to a creamy breast, whereupon his nose nudged against the pale pink half-cups of her bra and the sensitive nipple underneath, causing her to arch her back into his mouth.

Sansa reached behind her and in a moment, the pale half-cups were gone — flung across the room with emphatic abandon. And before Petyr now lay two gloriously pale breasts, perfectly shaped and waiting, each nipple already pebbling in anticipation. He obliged them immediately, burying his face and nibbling on one before taking a rose-blushed tip in his mouth to give a hard flick and suck.

“Yes…” a distant sigh as Sansa arched her back again and smiled happily. “Like that, please.” _Such manners_ , he marvelled. Always, _always_ the gentle lady. 

Except now she was yanking his shirt from his pants, a single dexterous hand popping open his buttons with single-minded competence. She fumbled a little lower and he sucked his teeth when her hand finally brushed his excruciating erection, the one he’d seemed to have popped from the moment he'd clapped eyes on her, standing there two months ago on his doorstep like a goddess dappled by morning sun...

_— She came to you to find her husband._

_— Who just chose the dirty old bitch over this supple perfection of a woman._

_— You’re just full of shit. You know Harrold is going to fuck her tomorrow if he can. You saw it in his eyes. He wants her back. He just doesn’t know how with Cersei around._

_— Well yeah, but does Sansa know that?_

Petyr groaned. He was wholly unused to this, really. _Fucking conscience. Of all times…_

“You like that, do you?” Sansa’s voice was low and quiet now with a hint of sexy menace. Petyr froze. It was oddly familiar, his instincts told him, and yet for all the wrong reasons. 

But Sansa was pushing his shirt apart impatiently now, her mouth dipping down to return the favour, nibbling at his nipple just before he heard the sound of his zipper…

_Fuuuuuuuuuck…_

He wanted her. He wanted her so much, it actually hurt. How long had he dreamed of this! How long had he plotted and waited! _Slowly_ , he had told himself. _Give every appearance of helping her. Harrold will implode all on his own because he’s a fuckwit, a child. Just show her how a real man treats a woman. She will see for herself. It’s too easy._

And in a way, it had been. She was finally touching him now. Kissing him. Wanting him. And yet… did this really count?

“Dammit,” he finally sighed. He couldn’t believe it. But he was actually going to do this. Petyr rubbed his hand down his face. He wanted to kick something. Or someone. 

“Sansa…” And at her name, spoken so softly, so regrettably, she turned to stare at his face and something in his expression told her all she needed to know.

“We can’t,” he said softly. He fucking couldn’t believe it. But he persisted anyway. “You’ll hate yourself in the morning.” He coaxed her gently to move so their faces could meet once more. He brushed her hair gently behind her ear, hating every moment of this even though it was the smart thing to do.

“It’s not you, okay?” he murmured, kissing her eyes softly — one, two. “I want to. I want _you._  But you’ll hate yourself in the morning. And I’d rather not be the cause of that hate.”

She sighed and then sighed again. But somehow he knew she understood. Maybe even agreed.

They held each other in that bed, her head on his chest as her eyes leaked every now and then. He didn’t really know why she was crying. He could only guess it had everything to do with Harrold. And all he could do was hold her. 

And then slowly, so very reluctantly, he extricated himself from her embrace, kissing her softly on her forehead as he left her side, her bed. And then he grabbed the pillows on the other side of the mattress from her, trudging across to that tiny, narrow daybed carved out of the alcove beside the TV. 

Neither of them got much sleep at all that night. 

* * *

It was howling outside now. The sky was a glorious red and the rain was running off the heavens in sheets. But Margaery knew that typically, the winds would still in about five minutes, the rain another ten before it would drip steadily for the rest of the night until the dawn.

She was going to miss this. 

For in the end, when it came right down to it, Margaery liked the simple, classical things. The smell of rain. The wind when it kicked up before the deluge. Kisses on the nose, a feel of someone else's eyelashes as they passed over her face. 

A man stretched out on top of her, staring down unsmiling even as he pushed himself deep into her cunt and nestled there, throbbing with want while he washed her face with rough and gentle kisses.

She was going to miss him.

For in the end, Margaery Tyrell got her way as she always did. Even with the great lion. He agreed to let her go. And she had led him back into their bedroom and kissed him like it were the very last time until it finally was.  


	13. The Man I Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the previous chapter of Sabbatical...
> 
> Petyr is handy with an eyeshadow palette... they don't talk about the kiss... Tywin and Margaery hash things out... Petyr, Sansa, Harrold and Cersei double date like it's not THE most awkward thing to do... Harrold sets up a private uncoupling sesh with his wife... Sansa falls apart, then falls into Petyr's arms... Petyr pulls the plug and watches his balls turn even bluer... Tywin and Margaery agree to rush to the inevitable conclusion. Everybody sad-face.
> 
> All caught up? Let's jazz!

 [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162326344@N04/30352559808/in/dateposted-public/)

Three Raffles Hotel paperbags. That’s all it took. For in the end, Margaery hadn’t brought over as much of her personal crap as she thought she had. All these weeks playing house in a hotel, and what did she have to show for it but a few dresses and a shitload of lingerie, her makeup, her signature perfume. Couple pairs of shoes. A smutty book she liked. She thought she had nested a lot more than that, but as it turned out, perhaps she’d been travelling light all this while on purpose. Some subliminal self-preservation thing to prevent exactly _this_.  

Tywin had watched her, still stretched out on his front, his body utterly bare. And all he had done was to stare at her as she'd scurried around as soundlessly as possible, opening drawers — all those drawers! — and cupboards. He never got up to help her. He never got up to obstruct her either. He'd just lain there looking at her, his face frozen like a stone carving. She was wholly unused to Tywin staying so still. The air in the room, in the suite, was heavy and pungent with expectation although Margaery no longer understood what to make of it.  

Did she want him to stop her? She didn’t know. She didn’t know what she’d do if he did.  

She paused at the door of their room, the one she had flung open countless of times only to take a skip-hop and leap into their bed, pouncing on him like a kitten before he'd determinedly take over and fuck her to heaven and back. She paused and he finally turned around to face her. She thought about kissing him one final time. 

But if she did, she might never be able to walk back out again. And God, the _begging_... 

“Thank you,” she said instead and meant it. She closed the doors behind her and bit her lip. 

* * *

Somehow the concierge had recognised Margaery from her lunch with Tywin yesterday and had cheerily let her in without so much as an ID check. _His shadow reaches long and far,_ grimaced Margaery. It always jolted her, the way Tywin's name would open doors and get things done in this country. And at that and with a toss of her hair, Margaery firmly squashed down the strange, hollow feeling that seemed to chase close behind at the very whisper of him.  

They were both in the room when Margaery finally rang the doorbell and she braced herself as she heard the chain slide across and the door finally fling open. 

"Where have you been!" cried Sansa predictably as she proceeded to maul her friend and envelope her in a fierce hug.  

"I'm so sorry!" gushed Margaery. "I came as soon as I could, but I couldn't remember any of your numbers... and then you weren't in your room when I called..." 

"I saw you!" Sansa cried, dragging Margaery in. The room was a lot tinier than the temporary suite they had set aside for Tywin, although the colours were the same. "You were at lunch with Harry... and Cersei... and I also saw your Mr T!" 

"Oh God!" Margaery groaned and sank into an armchair by the windows, kicking her heels off. "WHAT a debacle! When I turned up for lunch and saw your fucking husband—" 

"—So you didn't know Harry was going to be there, then!" 

Margaery's eyebrows shot up. "NO! Of course not, darling! Oh my goodness, who do you think I am?! I was _shocked!_ And that woman!" She added _sotto voce_ , "So _old!_ " 

"You're one to talk, from what Sansa tells me," mused a familiar voice in the other corner of the room. 

"Hello, darling." Petyr sauntered over and Margaery air-kissed the sides of his face. "You look like hell," she observed wryly. "Didn't sleep much?" 

Petyr shrugged but Margaery didn't miss the way his eyes darted across to Sansa before flitting back to hers and then out towards the window. _What's this?_ wondered Margaery, but she was looking at Sansa now. Sans was seated on the bed, her gaze assiduously trained on Margaery and avoiding Petyr, even though he was now seated right next to her by the windows. 

_Hello!_

"So what was your lunch about?" Sansa insisted on knowing. "What did Harry say when he saw you?" 

"Nothing much really," mumbled Margaery, willing herself to focus on the topic even as her mind started to race.   

"Nothing!"

"What the hell was he going to say? That I'm the best friend of the wife he's cheating on? As if he's going to admit all that to the father of the woman he's fucking — sorry darl, _so_ insensitive of me! — the woman he's _seeing._ " 

But Sansa hardly seemed to notice that at all. " _Father!_ " she yelped instead, her hand covering her mouth as the penny dropped. "Mr T is Cece's father?!"  

And now it was Margaery's turn to stare out the window. There was the most awkward pause, until Petyr suddenly snapped to attention as if woken from a daydream or a fog. He stared at Margaery. 

"Wait — you were fucking TYWIN LANNISTER?!"  

* * *

Mercifully, Margaery was able to wrangle the conversation back to what happened to Sansa instead. And from the sounds of things, plenty had indeed occurred. Margaery willed herself to focus as best as she could, gasping in outrage at all the appropriate bits even while she felt the fringes of her mind start to wander back to the evening and this morning. _I left my diaphragm case at the nightstand_ , she realised with an inward groan. Not like she was bloody going to get lucky between now and home anyway.

But even in the midst of her own introspection and understandable self-absorption — and Margaery would be the first to admit to being quite self-absorbed — there was something else. Something neither Petyr nor Sansa was telling straight. 

"And so your dinner with Harry, that's tonight?" Margaery pressed.  

"It is," Sansa replied, looking at Petyr now. Something zinged between the two of them and then Petyr turned once again to look out the window. 

"So that's it?" Margaery pressed again. "You're going to uncouple?"  

"I don't know!" whispered Sansa. "What if he wants to!" 

"He doesn't," Margaery replied with a force of certainty. "Have you been listening to yourself? He's dying inside. You and Petyr must have really put on some show, because I'll bet Harry's confused as hell and he wants some time alone with you to see if you've really changed or if you're the same." 

"But I _am_ the same!" And at that, Sansa stood from the bed and started pacing the room, clearly agitated. "All that make-up yesterday, all that posing... it's only for a little while! I'm still the same!" 

"Not really..." And Margaery stood up from her chair now, her own worries well and truly cast aside for the present. "I know I've hardly been around, but that only means that whenever we meet again, I can see all your changes. You have changed! Not fundamentally, but something inside you is different. You've lit up, chicky! Believe me. There's some sparkle in you I've never seen before." 

But instead of making Sansa feel better, Margaery only seemed to make it worse. 

"I... I dunno..." Sansa pasted on a wobbly smile and started to look for her purse and phone. "I think I need to clear my head a bit. Take a walk." 

"Want me to come with you?" 

"No need," Sansa shook her head. Petyr didn't even offer. But a look passed between the both of them before Sansa turned around and smiled brightly at Margaery. 

"I'm okay. I've just been in the room almost all morning. A walk will be good. See if I can find some new lipstick." 

As soon as the door closed behind Sansa, Margaery strode right over and started hitting Petyr. 

"You tried to sleep with her, didn't you!" 

"Ow, ow, fuck OW!" Petyr growled, jumping up from his chair. "Lay off me! Nothing much happened." 

"Nothing _much?!_ " And Margaery closed her fists and started to pummel. 

"Alright — ALRIGHT!" yelled Petyr as he danced away. "Look — we kissed, alright? She was upset, she read Harry's signals all wrong and thought he really wants to leave her at this dinner tonight, and we got into the room, and we just... we kissed, alright?"

"Just kissed?" 

Petyr's mouth twitched. "Ish." But he held up his hands immediately as Margaery barrelled forwards. "In my defence, Margaery Tyrell, _I_ was the one who pulled the plug, alright? Nothing. Happened."

Margaery glared at Petyr. "Nothing?" 

"Nothing. She didn't cheat on her precious Harry."

And at that, something in Margaery finally seemed to deflate. "I don't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed, honestly," she finally admitted. 

"Yeah? Well, welcome to my hell." 

They both sank into the bed and flopped down side by side, staring at the recessed ceiling and the hexagonal detailing.  

"What are you going to do now?" Margaery asked eventually. "You gonna take this lying down?" 

"Harry can't attract ants even if he were slathered in honey." But Petyr didn't sound so sure.  

"Because the way I see it," Margaery mused, "it's either you help her by sabotaging their chances tonight, or you help her get what she wants. And I no longer know which is the better outcome for our girl. I thought I did." Margaery rolled over to her side suddenly and gazed at Petyr. "Sorry I'm not more helpful. But Life is about shit choices after all." 

"You seem down, Tyrell."  

And at the sudden kindness, Margaery started to cry. "Oh fuck!" she whispered, so cross with herself. 

Petyr was sitting upright now, eyebrows knitted in concern. "Margaery," he frowned as he grappled for words. "Are you... in the family way?" 

"In the family — God, Petyr! This isn't 1955!" 

"So you're not pregnant." 

"It's so much worse!" she sobbed. "I think I'm in love!" 

* * *

“Do you really think Harry still wants me?” Sansa asked him through the mirror, her hair still in rollers, her exquisite body wrapped tight in the standard-edition Stamford Club terrycloth bathrobe that somehow made her look so very small, so very young, and yet so very, _very_ beddable.

Damn Margaery for begging her leave, for citing inconsolable heartache and a desperate need for retail therapy before giving Petyr a little wink as she shut the door behind her. 

Petyr stared back at Sansa through the mirror, his hands squeezing her shoulders. “Without a doubt, sweetling.” 

“How do you know?” 

“I know.” 

“But you hardly know Harrold.” 

“But you’re not a man,” Petyr pointed out and at that, Sansa finally retreated behind a cloud of thought.   

He watched her as she cleaned her face, as she went through the almost sacred ritual of preparing her skin so it became a canvas for the warpaint that was to come. _But she’s already perfect,_ he anguished. And yet this lovely face — scrubbed clean and bare and so heartbreakingly vulnerable — is the very same that Harrold had glanced at for seven years only to look away to gaze at another. _Utterly blind wanker!_ Petyr shook his head as he tamped down his frustration once more. 

“Help me?” she asked him now as she handed him her palette of eyeshadow colours once more. And this time she turned to face him squarely, closing her big blue eyes as she invited him to camouflage her so she could look like a completely different animal.  

He stroked down her cheek, turned her jaw gently to the side and away he worked, again while holding his breath and she, hers. Silvers and grays and a smudge of violet and she’ll soon see why, he thought.  

She blinked and stared at herself, flicked on a couple sweeps of waterproof mascara and then stared some more.  

“Blush?” she blushed, handing him her palette for cheeks and he marvelled over how she seemed to trust his hands, how she never questioned his skill. She just _knew_. He found a suitable brush and dusted her face, giving her cheekbones that could cut glass. He pressed her hair back gently as he swept the bronzer into her hairline and then blew gently into her ear.  

This time, she kept her eyes cast down, her newly tinted lashes sweeping her cheeks. She opened the lip palette and slid it across the dresser to him. 

“Help me?” she whispered and his cock twitched. 

He cradled her face, her jaw in his hand like it were Ming porcelain. Her eyes were heavy, her breathing had changed and frankly, so had his.  

Those lips. 

It took everything not to kiss her. Not to bring that unconscious pout to his mouth and plunder it like a thief — greedy and grasping and gleeful. He didn’t know how long they stared at each other, but stare away they did until finally he turned, the lip brush glancing across a colour almost of its own volition. And then he painted her — one luscious lip at a time. His hand trembled maybe once, twice.  

“Do you think I’m ready?” she asked eventually. “Do you think I have what it takes?” 

“Oh, you’re ready,” Petyr replied darkly and Sansa turned to look at him instantly. It'd sounded almost like an accusation. 

But he was standing now and moving towards the cupboard where his suits were hanging.  

“I brought along a little… insurance. Here,” he gestured, unzipping the garment bag to reveal the gossamer underneath. 

Sansa gasped.  

“You didn’t!” 

“It appears I have.” 

“But Petyr!” And Sansa stared as he worked the dress out of the bag and held the _Kenny Long_ gown up for her to see.  

“When I said not to let Margaery get me this…” And Sansa shook her head, not quite believing the exquisite sartorial confection before her. “It’s too much!” 

“It’s a special occasion.” Petyr shrugged. “I know a guy. This is nothing.” 

“You know _the_ guy,” Sansa corrected. "And this is _not_ nothing!” But she was brushing down the gown reverently with her fingertips, the intricate beading rippling under her skin, the silvery gray panels catching the downlight in the room so it shimmered and changed as it slid from her fingers like China silk.  

Somehow he managed to coax her to wear it, to slip it on and then hold her breath as he glided the zip all the way to the top. He barely touched her, but her back tingled anyway from the ghost of him and she closed her eyes and tried once again to forget the night before and how he touched her. 

_It’s too much,_ she kept telling herself as she gazed at her transformation, as she swayed from side to side and watched the way it moved and hinted at her legs. And yet she could not bear to turn the dress down, could not bear to insist that he put it away after all that. 

It was honestly the loveliest thing a man had ever done for her.  

Sansa wasn’t sure anymore if she was just talking about the dress.  

“How would it work?” she asked, but he was turning the TV on and flicking through the channels until he found the classical Jazz. “We’re supposed to be discussing our separation… When will I know that it’s all changed? That he wants me back?” 

“You have a last dance,” Petyr replied and extended his hand in invitation. Sansa hesitated before she took his offer.  

He swung her smoothly into his embrace and then he was gently gliding her around the room. 

“Tell him it’s for old time’s sake,” Petyr murmured into her ear and she felt it right down to her toes immediately, her body blushing in his heat. “Do you guys have a song?” 

“ _The Man I Love?_ ”  

“Perfect,” Petyr smirked, sidestepping the coffee table. “I’ll let the band know. They’ll play it, you tell Harrold it’s your song, and it’s only natural that you have this one last dance.” 

“Cersei won’t like that.” 

Petyr’s eyes glinted. “Leave Cersei with me.” 

Somehow that assurance only sped up the turmoil roiling within Sansa. She closed her eyes and squeezed tight. _Focus_ , she berated herself even as she clenched her hand as if it were suddenly full of golden blonde hair.  

“And then?” Sansa managed to breathe. “We’re on the dance floor, we’re starting to dance…" 

“And then…” Petyr brushes his lip across her ear, “you let your bodies do the real talking.” 

“Our bodies—” 

“Ssshhh,” he was saying now, his cheek against her own, her body slowly melting into his as he stopped and swayed them both. And nothing but the jazz played on. 

And oh, Sansa sighed, she didn’t know _what_ to feel anymore. Only that she was more confused than she’d ever been in her life. But the French horn was melancholy, the piano sweetly understanding, the cello so unfairly seductive, and she felt more cashmered than she ever had in months. Maybe years. 

“Why are you helping me?” she whispered finally and tried not to sound so lost. 

“Because, sweetling,” Petyr husked into her hair, “isn’t this what you’ve always wanted?"   

* * *

_Where's she gone?_ Harrold Hardyng wondered now, _and who is sitting here in her place?_ He'd almost dropped his glass the second she walked into the restaurant. It's like he'd never seen his own wife before. 

She was a vision. The room, the time had stopped.  

"I'll have the lobster," she beamed at the waiter now as Harry snapped back to the present, and his eyes bugged a little as she nonchalantly paired it with a '98 Sonoma-Cutrer Chardonnay. The Sansa he knew didn't touch shellfish. Much less paired it with a choice white wine. 

"I didn't know you eat lobster now," Harry ventured to say. 

"Me neither," Sansa smiled, her long fingers wrapping the stem of the glass before bringing the rim to her lips. "But I don't know... something about being away just makes me want to try new things." And even the way she just said that made Harry feel oddly warmed, a little turned on... and a hella confused. 

He couldn't place it. It wasn't just the one thing — _everything_ about her was different and yet the same. Her hair was still that stunning red, except now her lips were painted that deep dark plummy colour which only made her teeth look even whiter whenever she absently chewed her pillowy lip. He knew it wasn't like she ran out and got surgery, but her eyes looked different too — darker, somehow. More... _bedroomy_. He wondered suddenly if they'd look at him the same while he had her pinned under him in a darkened bedroom. But then he thought about Petyr and something twisted in his gut like a white hot poker. 

Harrold cleared his throat and tried hard not to look uncomfortable. They weren't seated very far from where the four of them last lunched with Cece's shit-inducing father and Margaery, of all people. And he knew somehow that Cece wouldn't be far tonight. She'd be watching him for sure, he knew. 

He had to play this very cleverly.  

"I brought a list," he volunteered a little loudly, flipping the A4 sheet open for all and sundry to see. "Some things we could talk about?" 

"Oh good," Sansa smiled, opening her purse and slipping her mobile out. "I brought my list too." 

* * *

“Spying on them, are you.” And at the sound of Petyr's voice, Cersei made a show of visibly cringing before turning around to face him squarely.

“You look like an idiot with that thing on,” she hissed in greeting and then scowled some more as Petyr’s cheshire grin widened, as he obliged her in a huge show of gallantry by whipping off his aviators. _Who the hell wears sunglasses indoors after sundown anyway,_ Cersei snorted. _Pretentious little shit._

Cersei glared at him as he slid onto the barstool next to her. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she demanded to know. 

“Exactly what _you’re_ doing,” he purred in response, swivelling ‘round after ordering a Kilkenny. He stared dead straight and smirked as he instantly located them in his line of sight. “I’m spying on our married couple,” Petyr supplied, tilting his chin towards Harry and Sansa just off to the left in the next room. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“They look good together,” continued Petyr, as if they were at a fashion show. “Harrold scrubbed up well. You dressed him tonight?” 

“No,” she hissed. “Did you?” 

“Did I dress Sansa?” Petyr raised an eyebrow. “Oh you bet I did.” 

A flicker of confusion and fury crossed her otherwise rock-hard botox-perfect face. Petyr didn’t miss a thing.  

“I don’t know what the hell the two of you are playing at,” Cersei was murmuring now, her voice almost pleasant so the venom dripping from her words could pass as honey. “But I know him. And Harry won’t go back to that sweet, _simple_ summer child…” 

“You’re probably right,” Petyr mused, taking a long slow sip. “And yet,” he added, "you’re here watching like his momma anyway." 

* * *

“She did not!” Sansa gasped.

“She did,” Harry nodded emphatically. “And she knew it too. The moment Tywin introduced her as Alayne Stone, I realised what she’d done. I think Margaery didn’t know what to do first — kill him, kill me, or die on the spot!” 

And he watched, enthralled, as Sansa pictured the scene for herself before she threw her head back and laughed heartily. He couldn’t help it then, he had to join her — even as he darted a furtive look in Cece’s direction, wondering if she could see them from the bar.  

“Oh but why did she even take my name!” Sansa wondered now when she finally recovered. She was looking around for tissues and he grabbed his napkin instead, leaning across the table to dab at her eyes carefully. He didn’t even smudge her mascara, he realised afterwards, slightly awed with himself. 

That seemed to sober Sansa up, however. 

“Thank you,” she mumbled, and seemed a little flustered. “Should we continue with our lists?” 

Harry stared at his paper. They’d already covered so many of their shared assets with such ease, it was ridiculous really. Harrold was suddenly grateful for how easygoing Sansa could be sometimes… and generous and yes, even kind. He couldn’t imagine Cece getting through even two of these discussion points without throwing a fit first. Breaking up with her would be a bit of a hell, frankly.  

Harry swallowed. 

“Are you alright, Harry?” Sansa asked now, sounding so concerned. He’d forgotten how instinctive she could be about his change of moods. And yet he never seemed to have mastered reading hers in all their married life. 

“I was just thinking…” he started without quite knowing how to finish his thoughts. Because he didn’t know his thoughts, not anymore. He wanted to know how he’d missed seeing this. How he had missed seeing her this way. 

“You’ve changed,” he blurted. “Singapore’s changed you.” 

“No I haven’t, Harry… not really.” 

“You have,” he insisted and he leaned in now, suddenly determined that she should be made to understand how he was feeling — even if he didn’t much understand it himself. “Sansa… I don’t know how to say this without sounding weird, alright? But just listen. You’re… You’re just amazing now! I can’t take my eyes off you!” 

And while on hindsight, Harrold realised his sentiment could have been taken as a veiled insult instead, Sansa thankfully melted anyway.  

“Oh Harry,” she sighed, her eyes shining, “you really mean that?” 

* * *

They sat and watched them in silence after that, Petyr’s expression growing more distant and inscrutable as the moments ticked by, Cersei’s face steadily turning to black stone.

“They could just be reminiscing about old times,” he offered unhelpfully. 

“Shut up,” Cersei gritted for the umpteenth time. And yet she never demanded that he leave. 

“What do you see in the boy anyway?” Petyr finally asked with mild curiosity. “He that good a fuck?” 

“He’s easily trained,” came the smug response.  

“Don’t you get bored, though?” Petyr wondered. “You always riding his ass—“ 

“—you cunting—“ 

“—What I mean is,” Petyr added smoothly, fully anticipating her false indignation, “don’t you ever get tired of it, hmm? Don’t you wish sometimes the roles got reversed? He give you a little spank sometime?” 

“He wouldn’t dare!” 

“Precisely,” Petyr sighed with long-suffering patience. “But a woman like you… always in control, whether in or out of the bedroom…” His sunglasses were still folded in his hand from when he took them off earlier, but now he traced the curve of her shoulder with it. Any harder, and the metal hinge might start to scratch. It didn’t, not this time. That knife-edge just skirting pain… “A boy like Harrold, he wouldn’t know how to rough you up good. He’d keep apologising!” 

Cersei snorted, despite herself.  

He dragged his sunglasses across her tan and watched as a thin white line appeared. He smoothed it over instantly with his thumb and this time, she didn’t flinch from his touch. _Good_. 

“It can be nice, you know… handing the reins over to someone else for a little while. Or the whip,” he grinned wickedly now, raising his eyebrow. “See what all the fuss is about from the other side, you know? Pain and pleasure, all that? Feel a little fear? Lose a little control?” His voice dropped to a husk. “Maybe even beg?" 

“I’m a Lannister,” Cersei gritted out through her teeth. “I _never_ beg.” But he could feel the traitorous heat rising from her skin all the same.  

“Of course…” Petyr soothed, staring at her shoulder, her neck intently, as if he could burn a hole with his gaze alone, watching as the flush of anger, of excitement crept higher. “The control is always yours to give over, and yours to take back. And your pleasure will always be paramount. That would be a given. That is the aim of the game, of course. And I never miss.” 

She stiffened then, and Petyr turned to watch as Harrold reached across the table to take Sansa’s hand in his. The girl looked flustered. Radiant. Like a brand new bride about to be deflowered. 

“Hmm,” Petyr hummed instead, almost bored. “They seem to be getting along just fine, our sweet summer children.” 

“That gullible, _useless_ fuckwit!” Cersei seethed. 

“Indeed,” Petyr tutted. “There’s only one thing for it, you know,” Petyr added sagely. "Fancy a revenge fuck?” 

* * *

_It’s all so confusing,_ thought Sansa as she tamped down the sudden rise of panic. But Harrold was looking into her eyes right now and it was just like the night he proposed to her at that restaurant that closed down two years ago. She can’t even remember its name.

“How did we lose our way?” he was asking her now, and it’s all the conversations she’d been trying to start with him for seven years, all the deep-and-meaningfuls she’d longed to have while she competed for his attention as he slouched in front of the telly each night.  

Harrold, her husband, was trying to have them with her right now, right this moment. But all she could think of was what she saw just then. The way Petyr had smoothed his thumb over Cersei’s shoulder, the way he was sitting so close to her like he wanted to eat her.  

She felt Harrold's skin on hers suddenly, his big warm hands squeezing her fingers. She’d forgotten to wear her ring again, of all signals to put out… 

“Is there…” Harrold was struggling for words and normally Sansa would help him, would finish off his sentences. But she couldn’t right now. Petyr was nuzzling Cersei’s left ear. 

“Is there a chance, perhaps… for us to try… for us to start over?”  

“What?” 

“What?” Harrold looked up from their hands, utterly confused. 

“I’m sorry,” Sansa lied, desperate to buy some time even as she willed herself not to turn back again to look. “I couldn’t quite hear you… you were facing down?” 

“Oh San San,” he started again earnestly, falling back on his pet name for her that fell into disuse at least four years ago. “I just wanted to know if there was a way for us to start over again.” 

“But what about Cersei?” Sansa breathed. 

“You’re still my wife, aren’t you?” 

Sansa flushed and turned away demurely as if to gather her thoughts. She glanced across the room again, and there she saw them. Petyr was standing to leave. And Cersei was leaving with him. 

She watched him give a short instruction to the same portly _maître d’_ she had hidden behind just yesterday, and then she watched anxiously as Petyr turned and left the room, his hand on the small of Cersei’s back. 

_Leave Cersei with me,_ he had said. 

The band finished their latest croon and there was a small pause in between before the singer announced a song especially requested for tonight. The unmistakable opening piano solo of Gershwin’s _The Man I Love_ started to play right then, and Harry looked across at Sansa now, her hand already in his. 

“Sansa,” he asked with so much feeling, “would you please dance with me?”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _[The Man I Love](https://open.spotify.com/track/0rXZu998CXslEpwhxdHzeu)_ , as sung by the inimitable Etta James. Music and lyrics by the Gershwin brothers.


	14. Baring It All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the previous chapter of Sabbatical...
> 
> Petyr gives Sansa everything she wants, just about... Margaery's smut radar works freakishly well... Harry wants because he can't have... Margaery gets a teary epiphany... Petyr gets sexy schmexy with the last person on earth who deserves it. About 16 of you exploded in the comments section after that. :D
> 
> All caught up? Let's go!

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162326344@N04/43577630054/in/dateposted-public/)

“Who are you, Cersei Lannister…” Petyr wondered aloud as he wandered through the room, picking out clues as they jumped out at him. A fully laced bodysuit. Crotchless, he guessed. Some serious cuffs. Rope. Playing cards. A cat o’nine tails, black. Leather. Rubber. Silk and feathers. A riding crop.  

“Teacher’s pet?” he suggested, an eyebrow raised. She smirked, her nostrils flaring delicately.  

“No.” 

“No?” But he wasn’t surprised. _This_ fantasy of Cersei’s wasn’t something he thought she’d share with Harry.  

“The maid, perhaps? In her little French apron?” 

“No,” replied Cersei in a voice so quiet he barely heard her. He watched her long fingers gather up the pile of playing cards. “Go fish,” she commanded him softly, flicking a Queen in his face.  

_He’d make her pay later,_ he thought, pacing around her now so she had to turn to watch him. And she did, her stare curious and heated, her mouth twisted and pinched and amused.  

“The farm girl,” he drawled. "Bent over a haystack and taken roughly by a stallion.” 

“No.” 

“No…” he echoed her, still walking slow deliberate circles around her.  

“Secretary’s too boring for you… prosaic, really,” he mused. "You like a little kink, don’t you. A little kidnapping, perhaps?” 

“Not tonight.” 

“Interesting…” he pinched his chin. “You already play the bitch to perfection. And whore’s just too bloody obvious. You take no prisoners… unless…” His lips quirked. “…you’d like a bit of jail time, perhaps. Extra restraints in your cell after dark?” 

“Go fish.” Another card in his face.  

“Hmmm…” he hummed, even as a flash of white-hot desire gripped him suddenly. A memory — his tongue on Sansa’s breast, her wrist pinned to the side of her head, her moaning mouth… 

He stopped suddenly, his eyes narrowing as a new thought took hold. 

“Virgin,” he ventured, eyeing Cersei closely. “Born-again, or never touched. Everything new." 

It was the smallest of changes, but nevertheless something. Cersei stiffened.  

“Virgin girl? Virgin _woman_ …" he pressed "An Amish? A nun? _Virgo intacta!_ " 

Cersei froze. Petyr’s smile widened into a triumphant grin.   

“Sister Cersei?”  

Silence. But her hands on the deck of cards were still.  

“Sister Cersei of the Stamford Abbey. And who am I, then? Father Baelish?” 

“No…” she whispered. “Not Father.” 

Petyr leaned in close, his nose suddenly grazing the shell of her ear. “I could be a friar. Brother Petyr, then?” 

He watched as she drew a shaky breath.  

“Then Brother I can be…” And at that, Petyr reached in and gripped her wrist, spinning her suddenly so she was now pressed into the wall, her arm twisted and pinned firmly behind her, his breath hot on her neck.  

“Shall we begin, Sister?” he rasped. 

* * *

She dropped the keycard once, slipped it in upside down after that so of course it couldn’t open, but on the third go, she finally let her husband into her room.

Harrold crowded his wife into the nearest wall, his kisses hot, the wine and song still fresh on his lips. 

_ “Someday I’ll come along… the man you love… and I’ll be big and strong, the man you love…”   _

“Darlin’...” wondered Sansa aloud, “what are we do—” 

And in response, her husband crushed his lips over hers, their teeth knocking as he stole the rest of her words away, though not quite all her doubt. 

_Enjoy this,_ she told herself, trying to melt into him and willing her trepidation to shut up for a while. _He’s here, he’s yours!_ she reminded herself. _You won! You got him!_

And yet they’d hardly talked at all. She still hadn’t learned what made him leave in the first place. And shouldn’t that be an important thing to clarify? 

“San San, my San San…” he crooned, his kisses trailing down her jaw, her neck, the tops of her breasts. Sansa willed herself to relax even as she felt her body stiffen. This should feel familiar, she berated herself as she closed her eyes. But all she could see was Harry butt-naked, little schoolboy shorts still dangling around his ankles, a discombobulated figure in the background tapping a wooden ruler... 

Her eyes snapped open. _No,_ she yelled silently. For the very last person Sansa would ever want to allow in this room right now is that ol’ homewrecker, Cece.  

She gripped Harry by his hips and urged him towards her bed. In they tumbled, judging the height of the mattress badly as they both landed hard. Harry knocked the wind out of Sansa and she curled to her side and started to cough. 

“Are you alright my love?” Harry’s eyebrows furrowed in the semi-dark. The curtains had been left wide open before Petyr and Sansa had left the room for dinner and now the moonlight was streaming in. She could barely see Harry, only smell him and hear him and taste him, and he was still familiar but then he was not. 

He eased her back down the bed, one arm propping his body on his side and over her as his tongue sought hers and she tried her darnedest to get into the moment with him. Their teeth clashed again and she told herself to ignore that. 

His other hand meanwhile was stealing up her skirt, clumsy and searching and failing to find the opening in one of the panels. His weight was still on most of her dress, she belatedly realised as soon as he started tugging in earnest. 

“Stop!” she cried, breaking their kiss. “You’ll tear it!” 

“I don’t care,” Harry declared with some degree of passion. “Let it rip, I just have to touch you!” 

But Sansa shook her head, “NO!” And she wriggled free. “This dress is special… here, let me take it off.” And Harrold sighed as he turned fully on his side, releasing her so she could jump up from the bed. Thankfully nothing had ripped, not even the intricate beading. Harry was so rough! She felt for the zip in the back, closed her eyes and tried to forget Petyr’s touch on her skin when he zipped her up earlier… She felt the zip and then the air in the room as it hit her back. She shrugged off the dress and carefully laid it over the armchair. 

“Better,” she whispered, slipping back into bed.  

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, and then cupped her breast and kneaded her like she were dough. He took her nipple between his thumb and finger and squeezed her so she grimaced.  

“Ohh…” she whimpered and Harrold growled, “you’re so fucking sexy, Sansa…” before his head buried into her chest and she felt his mouth close over her breast, even as she felt his long fingers reach up her leg and start to jab around. 

She willed herself to relax and finally thought to loll her head back and close her eyes. Harry laved her nipple then and in that moment, she was brought right back to yesterday and how Petyr kissed her until she trembled, how he licked and sucked her until she almost came from that alone.  

She started to moan. 

And oh, that only encouraged Harry of course, though Sansa no longer minded even though she should. She yearned suddenly for the roughness of Petyr's face, for the way his hairs on his chin had grazed her body. _He’s a real man,_ Sansa had thought happily then, _not at all like a bare-faced hairless boy..._

Except suddenly she remembered the way he was nuzzling into Cersei’s ear at the bar and even with her eyes closed, she couldn’t unsee how he’d whisk Cersei away somewhere dark and velvet, how he’d whisper in that sexy rasp that always made everything sound so intimate. Harry was working his way down her body now, his tongue licking a path from nipple to navel. And yet all Sansa could see in her mind's eye was Petyr licking his way down _Cersei’s_ body… except Cersei’s body was _hers_. Except _she_ was Cersei… 

Sansa’s eyes snapped open. _Shit!_ she gasped, jerking so suddenly that Harry stopped, completely startled. 

“She’s effing  _everywhere!_ ” Sansa wailed into the dark.  

* * *

_So she’d been wearing leather and lace even all through dinner,_ thought Petyr as he regarded Cersei’s form stretched out on the bed before him. 

_Kinky, kinky Sister Cersei._

His eyes swept over her lazily, taking in the gold slinky dress dropped in a careless heap beside her bed, the fit of her bodysuit — so tight as to make everything look almost uncomfortable. The zip at her crotch, begging to be undone. Her breasts, her nipples straining at the barely-there lace. 

_God, she must eat like a bird. She’s so damn skinny._

“You’re quite the mouthy woman,” Petyr was saying now, the tip of her riding crop sweeping across her lips in emphasis, her eyes beady and watchful and hella excited even as her face remained resolutely haughty as fuck. 

“What say we pretend that you take a vow of silence, mmm?” And he pulled out a little something from his pocket — something he’d spied as soon as he’d entered the room. Cersei’s eyes widened at the mouth gag. 

“That’s for Harrold. I don’t use that. I can shut up if I want to.” 

Petyr leaned in. “I don’t believe you somehow.” 

“Put that thing anywhere near me, and this game is over.” 

Petyr shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said nonchalantly, dropping the gag on the bed beside him.  

“Take off your bloody jacket at least,” Cersei snarled, “you’re still dressed like a sloppy waiter!” But Petyr merely tutted, highly amused. 

“You don’t take being a submissive very well, do you?” he purred, brushing the riding crop down her neck now and past her breasts, tapping the left one lightly so she flinched ever so slightly.  

“Tell you what,” he proposed, as if suggesting places for lunch. “The next time you give me lip or talk out of line...” he purred, sweeping the crop further down until it brushed the side of her thigh. Cersei shifted over slightly, all the better for Petyr to flick the crop over so it skirted over a small buttock. He tapped her lightly but it was enough. “Do we understand each other?” 

She nodded. 

“Good,” he smiled, retracting the crop and straightening his back. “Now listen to me… I’d like to make you squeal so hard, they’d come running. Except I know how stubborn a bitch you are so here’s our deal, Cersei. You keep your vow of silence. And I’ll try and make you break your quiet meditation. How does that sound?” 

She scoffed immediately. “I’ve told you before — I’ll never beg.”

Petyr’s eyes glinted. “Oh, by the time I’m through with you, you won’t beg. But I’ll see to it that you’ll scream my name.” 

Cersei rolled her eyes and Petyr grinned. 

“Deal?” 

“Deal, you wanktard.” 

“Good,” Petyr approved. “Now before you start your little vow of shush, I’d like you to sing me something churchy.” 

Cersei narrowed her eyes. “I don’t fucki—“ 

He flicked the crop and the snap of sound cut her short immediately. Cersei froze as a small red welt started to glow on her right buttock. 

“Careful dear,” Petyr crooned. “Now you going to sing for me?” 

And Cersei huffed before she started to hum the first eight bars of the only old favourite she could remember. 

“Happy now?” she glared 

“Atrocious,” he pronounced softly. “That was fucking _Auld Lang Syne._ ” And as punishment, he reached over now and cuffed her right wrist to the bed. 

* * *

“Who’s everywhere?” asked a puzzled Harry.

Sansa cast her husband a baleful look. “Who do you think, Harry? Your girlfriend! The woman you left me for!” 

And at that, Harrold rolled on his back and heaved a loud sigh. “I’m sorry, Sansa. I just… I was bored—“ 

“Do you realise they’re together now?” she continued, barely hearing him.  

“Who?” 

“Cersei! Please pay attention, Harry!” The exasperating man!  

“Yes, but who’s ‘they'?” 

“Cersei… she’s with Petyr now, I think.” And Sansa hated how shrill her voice was starting to sound. “I-I saw them at the bar. They were watching us, and then… they left together.” 

“I know. I saw.” 

“You did?” Sansa was amazed. “And you don’t care?” 

Harry rolled back on his front, turning her face to his. “I do, a little…” And he looked rather bemused at his sudden confession. “But I want to be with _you_ more." 

“But why, Harry?” And Sansa struggled to sit upright. “You see me after ditching our marriage for months and months, you change your hair… your clothes…” She glanced over at his Ferragamo sports shirt on the floor, the one with the hideously busy print of cactuses that looked painted on by a child. “And from what we’ve heard over and over, you seem to prefer other… kinds… of bedroom activities now.” 

“I know,” he moaned, shaking his head. “I know… I know… I’m sorry! Just that seeing you these past few days, just looking so happy… looking this fantastic—“ And he gestured wildly at her face, her dress, her matching lingerie. “You look so amazing. And then Petyr! And I got jealous and that was when I realised I never stopped loving you, Sansa. Please believe me!” 

Those magic words! He still loved her, but why or why did it still feel all wrong? 

“Harry,” Sansa started slowly. “Petyr and I… we’re not really seeing each other.” 

“You’re not?” And she shook her head, somewhat shamefaced. 

“It was all a show. I just didn’t want to walk in there, meet you with your beautiful, scary Cersei, and look so pathetic and alone.” 

“But…” And Harry shook his head. “But you look so _happy!_ You mean to tell me it was all fake?!” 

And Sansa began to nod… before she slowly shook her head. 

“No…” she whispered, suddenly casting her eyes about the room wildly as something — something! — started to sink into her gut and pool there, making her feel all funny and fluttery and cold and hot. Oh dear, _oh dear!_

_“_ It wasn’t all fake!” And she couldn’t believe the words until she heard them spoken. But they were true. She was happy. Ridiculously so, whenever they were together. It didn’t matter if they were alone, in mixed company, talking, or just reading side by side. It wasn’t just that she was comfortable with Petyr — she _craved_ his company. And she’d only feel complete when he entered the room and their eyes locked. 

_ OH WOW AND OH FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!  _

“Sansa?” Harry asked uncertainly, feeling like something just happened without his knowledge, his consent, or his understanding. “Why are you looking at me like that? Sans?” 

“Do you really not care that Cersei left with Petyr?” his wife asked abruptly, her voice sounding funny, her eyes flashing at him in a way that suddenly made him uncomfortable and alert. 

“I wouldn’t say I don't care at all… but I’m here with you now! Isn’t this what matters more?” 

“You left me. You left _us_ without so much as an apology… o-or an explanation… or even the truth! You went to Southeast Asia and cheated on me in every possible way for months and months — and if that isn’t bad enough, it turns out that you didn’t even do it for _love?_ ”  

Well. That was not at all how Harry thought this evening’s cavorting was going to turn out. He opened his mouth and then closed it again, completely stupefied. 

“You’re right, Harry!” Sansa finally declared, gaining momentum and courage. “I think I have changed! Except it’s got nothing to do with you. That new spark you like so much? You definitely didn’t put it in me. And clearly, I didn’t fill a deep need in your pants you seem to have. I’m not good for you… and you’re not good for me, Harry.” And at the last, Sansa finally sounded sad. “You’ve never been great for my writing either,” she added.  

“Sansa…” But Harry already knew. Ten years with Sansa had taught him at least this much — how to read the signs when she finally makes up her mind.  

Husband and wife stared silently at each other in the dark. 

“So… what do we do now?” Harrold finally sighed, taking Sansa's hand.  

* * *

“Have you been sinning, Sister?”

“No.” 

A lightning-fast flick of the whip and Cersei winced as her own riding crop met with her thigh.  

“No, _Brother._ ” 

“No, Brother.” She sounded a little hoarse and Petyr watched as she wet her lips. He smirked. 

“But you’re lying, Sister. For I know you sin in this holy place of worship. You, who brought me into your room after dark. Your very own Brother in the faith. Have you no shame?” 

“None.” 

“Shall I take your confession?”  

She was spread eagle for him now, almost willing him to grab the rope on the nightstand and tie her ankles as well. She barely breathed as his hands ghosted the front of her bodice, and he proceeded to work each and every hook and button without ever touching her skin.  

He’d always been good with his fingers that way.  

He watched as she took a shuddering breath when he eased the tip of the crop under the leather and lace, as he slowly unwrapped her so she was utterly bare to him now. She was as could be expected — perfectly tanned and airbrushed, her breasts unusually high for a woman her age, her belly flat and unforgiving, her mound absolutely hairless and almost toy-like. She looked like a human Barbie, like a fucking doll except he knew she was very much alive by the scent of her, heavy and dewy with want.  

He took his time of it, staring at her unflinchingly and watching as her skin goose pimpled under his cool scrutiny. 

For all intents and purposes, she had a killer body and still he would not touch her. She arched off the bed suddenly, but he was quick to jerk his hand away. 

“Uh uh uh…” he warned softly, pulling away from her as he reached across and casually lifted her wrist to clip it to the other bedpost, the cuffs weighty and solid. They clicked close and sounded quality. 

“Confess,” he invited her silkily, the word pitched soft and low. 

“I have nothi—“ 

He cracked the whip and watched as she jumped, her nipples growing hard in response even as an angry red started to bloom on her breast. 

“Confess,” he pressed his case. 

“I don’t know what you want me to say!” she admitted angrily, before adding a hasty, “Brother!" 

“You like taking men into your bed,” he accused. 

“Petyr, I thought I was supposed to be a virgin—“ 

“Confess!” he commanded, as he matched the bloom of red on her left with a stripe on her right. Cersei jumped and gasped. 

“Alright, alright!” she growled. “I like taking men into my bed.” 

“Younger men,” Petyr corrected, and when Cersei’s eyes narrowed, his whip slid further south. “Confess it!”

“I like fucking younger men!” she gritted fiercely.  

“The stupid ones especially,” Petyr smirked. 

“Present company included,” mumbled Cersei before she yelped against her will when the whip cracked, glancing her inner thigh.

“You lure young men between your thighs, Sister,” Petyr purred. “The original Fly Trap, that unholy canal between your legs. You play your games, you chew them up, and then you spit them out. Admit it now.” 

“So what if I do!” Cersei snapped. "What the hell are you playing at, Baelish!” But he was too quick for her and when he deftly tapped the top of her mound, freakishly close to her glistening pearl of great price, she yelped once more, squeezing her thighs together on reflex. 

“We’ll have none of that now,” he rasped, as he grabbed the rope. Deftly he tied her, even as she glared at him from the head of the bed. But he noticed how she did not fight him when he extended one long Barbie leg and did the knot at her ankle. First one, and then the other until she was spread eagle again. 

And still, he barely touched her apart from what was strictly necessary. It worked, too. She was chaffing at the figurative bit now. If he grabbed her and gagged her, he wouldn’t be surprised if she’d come from _that_. 

He smiled.  

_What Would Cersei Do,_ he wondered. There were two, maybe three ways in which this could play out. He could count on her pride for silence and discretion. He could also count on her temper for a knee-jerk reaction and myopic stupidity. 

Either way, he’d probably pay for this somehow. Thank fuck Margaery had given him some insurance. 

“Wh… Where are you going now?” 

“Shhh!” Petyr tapped his finger to his lips. “Vow of silence, Cersei.” 

He checked his pockets for the usual. His keys, his wallet, his phone still recording… 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing!” 

“What does it look like I’m doing, Sister?” 

“You can’t fucking— UNTIE ME AT ONCE, YOU ARSEHOLE!” 

But Petyr only smiled, tossing the crop into the corner of the room. He rummaged her bar fridge and helped himself to celebratory drinks. 

“MOTHERFUCKER!” 

“We haven’t fucked,” he reminded her serenely. 

“You’ll pay for this,” she seethed but he merely waved his hand vaguely, as if swotting a sticky fly. 

“Goodnight, Cersei.” 

“DON’T YOU DARE LEAVE ME LIKE THIS!” she screeched now. “Petyr… PETYR. PEEEEEEEETYR!!!” 

He grinned as the fireproof door closed behind him, muffling her fury instantly. In the end, she did scream his name after all.

* * *

Petyr called Housekeeping on his way out, mumbling something in a local accent about trash all over the bed and that he suspected it couldn’t possibly wait until tomorrow.

And then he waited quietly at the front until the valet found his coupé. 

“Please hand this to reception,” he added before slipping into his 911. The envelope wasn’t sealed, but he scrawled Sansa’s name and room number on the front and handed it to the valet. 

It was the coward’s way out, perhaps. But he didn’t think he could bear the sight of the Hardyngs breakfasting together or some shit, all kissy and glowing from a nightlong of _catching up_.  

Petyr peeled out the driveway and headed home alone.  

* * *

_“Yau mo gau chorrrrr!”_ he growled as _Tai Jie_ continued to knock softly on his door. One eye popped open as Petyr glared in her direction in the darkened room, straining to hear his usually pragmatic housekeeper explain why the hell she was insisting he come downstairs even though he’d specifically told her not to wake him this morning unless she was on fire. 

Something about a visitor she didn’t think she could shake. 

He sighed. It couldn’t be Sansa — she had the key and besides, he doubted she’d be back by now. Probably making alternative living arrangements, he grimaced unhappily. 

It couldn’t be Cersei. _Tai Jie_ specifically said “that White man wouldn’t take no for an answer”. 

Petyr groaned, burying his face in his pillow even as _Tai Jie_ yelled at him not to dare to fall back to sleep. Aggravating woman. 

He was just forming his snarky speech about learning how to take a bloody hint when he threw the door open and felt the words die on his lips. 

Sir Tywin Fucking Lannister, the father of the woman Petyr just tied up and abandoned not ten hours ago, was standing on his front porch and looking decidedly the worse for wear. The titan looked hella tired. Haggard even.  

“Sir Tywin… sir!” Petyr startled before he strove to compose himself, even as his heart rate ratcheted up. “And how can I help you this morning?”  

Tywin’s eyes narrowed, taking in Petyr’s unruly hair, the telltale drawstring pyjama pants, the mismatched T-shirt most indubitably just thrown on in haste. The younger man was far from repulsive in visage, which was rather suspicious and aggravating in and of itself. “Who are you!” he growled. 

Petyr blinked. “I’m Petyr. Petyr Baelish.” 

“And Margaery’s here?” Tywin clarified.

“Margaery lives with me, yes.” 

“Margaery lives with _you?_ ” Tywin repeated, his jaw clenching along with his fist and Petyr suddenly realised his faux pas. 

“Not in that way,” Petyr hastened to clarify, stepping back gingerly. “We’re not… she’s just a friend. She’s hardly here, anyway. She’s always with you!” 

_Worse and worse,_ Petyr grimaced, mentally slapping his face. He was obviously off his game this morning.   

“Tywin?” Speak of the she-devil. Petyr turned around to find Margaery behind him, a short thin Japanese silk robe wrapped round her defensively. “What are you doing here?” 

_She looks like hell, frankly._ Petyr stared at her face and realised she must have been crying.  

He stepped away now, trying to disappear discreetly while still curiously looking on even though there was hardly any need for such discretion, really. Petyr could be tap dancing to Hip Hop for all they cared. He watched as Margaery shuffled slowly to the door, as Tywin visibly softened suddenly, the tension in his face, his stance leaving his body as if a plug had been pulled.   

“Is everything alright?” she asked him, and Tywin Lannister looked like he could barely answer the question. 

“I’m sorry to disturb,” he replied stiffly instead. “But I was wondering if we could take a drive.” 

Margaery peered out the door and stared at the empty Bentley in Petyr’s driveway.  

“You drove here yourself?” Margaery asked, clearly astonished at the mere idea. 

“I’m capable of driving, yes.” 

She shook her head slightly, but there was a ghost of a smile playing on her lips now. Something soundless yet significant passed between the both of them and Petyr watched as Margaery eventually gave a sigh. 

“Could you give me five minutes?” 

Tywin grimaced and Petyr wondered if that was somehow his version of a smile. 

“More like half an hour,” Tywin corrected. But his voice was soft and low as he added, “I’ll wait all day if I have to.” 

* * *

“Are you hungry?” Tywin asked, even as Margaery continued to stare at the sight of him driving, his long legs necessitating the adjustment of his chair so he was seated a little behind her.

She realised she’d never sat in front before, at least not in his Bentley. 

“A little,” she managed to say.  

“I know a place,” he replied before turning into a little lane between two gated properties. They were still within Petyr’s neighbourhood, she thought. They hadn’t yet hit the main road. 

But now the lane was widening into an avenue of Rain Trees as far as she could see before the road curved, their old woody arms stretched over on either side so as to form a natural green tunnel that cooled the day immediately and dappled the light so she no longer had to squint without her sunnies.  

Eventually the road widened even more and changed, the asphalt leading to loose gravel as the car turned left once again and slowed to a stop in front of two humongous white iron wrought gates. Margaery missed the initials that met in the middle, too engrossed by the sight of the stark white guard houses on either side, and the big, burly Sikh guards with their grave dignity and mauve turbans saluting Tywin as the gates swung open slowly. 

Margaery’s heart seemed to skip a beat when her niggly suspicions were all by confirmed. They drove on in silence so thick, she could slice and spread it on toast. A seemingly endless wall of giant conifers flanked their passage now, the uniformity of their heights too exact to be left to mere nature and chance.  

When they finally passed the last bend on the beige gravel road, when Tywin’s house finally loomed in sight, Margaery couldn’t help herself. She gasped. 

“Oh my god, Tywin!” she blurted. “You’re Mr Darcy, but old!" 

‘House’ was probably the understatement of the year, for Casterly Rock was more Castle than _Casa_ , with its majestic Corinthian pillars fronting the building, so typical of the British colonial architecture that defined the island nation’s most prestigious heritage structures. Casterly Rock had been built in the mid 19th century not long after the British declared Singapore founded by them (as if the island had been lost before); the architect — shipped in especially from the Motherland, of course — was still heavily infatuated with the neo-Palladian style and deliberately built it to resemble Wrotham Park (also more castle than _casa_ ) in Hertfordshire. Or so Margaery was told, struggling still to take it all in. 

It was palatial. Stupendously, stunningly big and grand and fucking gorgeous. Just like the Raffles Hotel, the central block was three storeys high but flanked by two great wings, each adorned by porticos and containing a vast suite of staterooms and bedrooms and reading rooms and offices and servant quarters and goodness knows what else. The entrance from the ground floor opened up to stately double curved staircases leading up the soaring central rotunda and into the _piano nobile_ — or the “noble level”, where the principal reception and the bedrooms resided. A strange little quirk: chimneypieces were still the main focus of each room, as if the architect had forgotten entirely that they were in the bloody tropics now. Each was topped by an exquisite art piece or an antique mirror. Margaery passed room after room, barely able to take in the array of intricate detail; the plasterwork ceilings, the carved wood, the almost baroque wallpaper in some of the rooms forming a fitting backdrop for increasingly opulent and eclectic assemblages of furniture and _objets d'art_ from around the world and across the ages.  

It was a handsome, very stately, very old home and suddenly, Margaery saw Tywin, _understood_ him like she never did before. 

But now he was leading her through to the back of the house... past the deep verandahs reminiscent of Petyr’s home to deal with the tropical downpours… down the external curved staircase into the rest of the grounds proper. And there she saw the rest of Tywin’s kingdom, his backyard an expanse of 25 acres of park that included an orange grove and three pavilions. Margaery spied a small oriental garden off to the side and noted how it was completely dwarfed by its lavish English cousin that took pride of place on the grounds: front and centre. Done in the Italianate style, its entrance was heralded by two majestic forty-feet evergreen conifers and the short stairs led Margaery out to a sweeping expanse of green before it was reined in once more by exotic treescape — the saplings and plant life especially shipped in and arranged in stately symmetry and with mathematical proportion way back in the day.  

Past the formal English garden lay a thirty-three-metre long infinity pool overlooking a small drop into the manmade lake that eventually led back to the Singapore Botanic Gardens. A little-known secret, as Margaery was quietly told. 

And as she surveyed the view from Tywin’s world and whiffed the rarefied air he breathed, she felt more confused than ever before. 

“Why did you bring me here?” she asked, her appetite well and truly lost now as the rest of her senses struggled with the overload. And in response, he guided her gently to the redwood bench under a brilliant flame tree and bade her to sit beside him. 

“My name is Tywin Lannister, son of Tytos Lannister and Jeyne Marbrand, oldest of three, father to three ungrateful children, grandfather to three children not very much younger than you, and widower to the only woman I ever loved… until I met you.” 

Margaery’s breath caught.  

"I live here,” Tywin continued, his voice and gaze growing soft and faraway. “My family comes from Wales but this is my home although my father almost lost it all to whoring and stupidity and the eventual collapse of the tin industry in Malaysia when he refused to diversify. And by sheer hard work and determination, I brought my family name back from the brink of oblivion. I am now what they call a multi-industry tycoon. Our portfolio spans energy, agriculture, construction, manufacturing, real estate… but I cannot even trust my children to run a lemonade stand without fucking the damn thing up. So maybe I’ve failed after all.” 

She touched his wrist and gave it a gentle squeeze. And he reached for her, placing his large warm hand on hers and oh, did she miss him. It had barely been over twenty-four hours. 

“My name is Margaery Tyrell,” she now volunteered, staring at their touching hands and hearing her voice grow small. “Daughter of Mace Tyrell and Alerie Hightower, divorced twice — once when I was twenty to a plastic surgeon, again when I was twenty-three to the son of a media mogul. When I was twenty-five, I married a viscount who turned out to be gay for my own brother. So I got an annulment instead.” She drew a shuddering breath. “I run a lifestyle blog for millennials that I pretend to monetise but really, it just earns me adulation and nothing much more. I pretend to life coach through social media even though I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about half the time. I shop, I eat, I travel, I get into trouble. I don’t make anything worth talking about. I don’t even write books like Sansa. But I lied that I did, because at least I could try to pretend I knew how. I didn’t want you to know I don’t do anything that amounts to anything much at all. I didn’t want to lose you.” She touched his face and almost cried all over again when he leaned into her touch.  

Tywin pursed his lips. “The first time I finally try to procure the discreet services of a special lady… and I meet you instead. I was not expecting… you to be _you_.” 

“Neither was I!” nodded Margaery. “I kept telling myself you’re too old… that it doesn't mean anything..." 

“The more I found out about you,” admitted Tywin, “the more I knew I should have walked away. It made very, very little sense for me to continue meeting you. I was wholly and utterly unused to such irrationality. It drove me spare, honestly.” 

Margaery sighed. “It makes no sense.” 

“None whatsoever.” Tywin grimaced. “You’re almost the same age as my oldest grandson.” 

“Which makes you old enough to be my grandfather!” Margaery groaned. 

“I live here.” 

“I live a whole continent away. And my best friend is trying to get her husband back from your slutty daughter.” 

“She’s a Lannister,” he gritted his teeth. “My loyalties, unfortunately, have to stay with her.” 

“Fair enough. Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t!” 

But he pulled her to him now and kissed her deeply, and she was lost because he _did_ know her. Very well.  

“You barely know me…” she whispered instead, still grasping for reasons even though he was looking at her just that way so all her stoicism was turning to goo. 

“It’s only been weeks,” he agreed. 

“I have a terrible track record,” she reminded him. “I can’t seem to stay with a man, as we’ve discussed." 

“I’ve always liked a challenge, though,” he pointed out thoughtfully and she scowled. 

“That’s not how this thing we’re doing now works, Tywin!” But she leaned into him once more and kissed him again, slipping her arms around his neck and drinking him in, her heart beating so hard and so fast, she thought she might pop something.  

“You’re twenty-seven, aren’t you,” Tywin pointed out when they finally came up for air. 

“And you…?” 

“Might be dead by the time you turn fifty.” 

“You can’t die,” she whispered, brushing her lips against his ear, “you fuck like a god.” 

He groaned into her hair, pressing her so close to him he thought he might crush her. His tongue found hers again before long and Joanna forgive him please, but if he didn’t watch himself, he was going to fuck Margaery on his dead wife's favourite park bench like a horny twenty-year-old.    

“Oh god, it’s not like I can feature you on _Lipp!_ , can I! You’re not even Instagrammable!” Margaery sighed forlornly. 

“What the hell is Instagram!” 

And at that, she finally tilted her head and laughed. And god help her, but Tywin Lannister was smiling too. And it was a rare and gorgeous thing to behold.

“Why is it that you always find the perfect thing when you’re totally not ready!” Margaery lamented now. “Like the perfect pair of shoes! Or the man you find you just… can’t… be without.” 

And something in him — a weight, a string drawn too tight, an organ missing a vital piece — something eased within the old Lion and he felt himself truly relax for the first time in a very, very long while. 

“Margaery Tyrell,” he intoned solemnly. "How do you feel about staying in Singapore a little longer?” 

“How much longer?” 

Tywin shrugged. “Indefinitely?" 


	15. One Fine Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the previous chapter of Sabbatical...
> 
> Petyr finds out how to move Cersei... Margaery's Harry-Situation Plan bears fruit... and Tywin takes a drive. 
> 
> All caught up? Let's end this!

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162326344@N04/42547564720/in/dateposted-public/)

Tywin stared at his phone in his hand as a scowl started to form across his old handsome face.

"Careful," Margaery teased, craning her neck up to kiss the corner of his mouth. "Window's open. Afternoon breeze might freeze that look on your face."

"Your warning's at least two decades too late," he returned, the rumble of his baritone reassuring as Margaery returned her head to his chest, pressing her face into the golden-silver hairs there. Her tummy squawked loudly in the room, a most unladylike sound that should embarrass her except he'd just extracted enough feral noises from her person to set his own dogs off in protest. 

She yawned prettily. "Who was that anyway?"

"That," clipped Tywin testily, "was the Yacht Club. Seems that _The Stamford_ is most apologetic, but they have had to revoke my family's membership. Apparently, my daughter had caused quite a stir late last night."

 _Idiot night manager,_ Tywin told himself. He's going to have to scorch the earth now. Or buy the fucking establishment. He hadn't quite decided. What a bloody nuisance, honestly. 

"Oh?" Margaery yawned again. She'd hardly slept last night from all the bawling and now that Tywin had rogered her silly to make up for all that, all she wanted to do at present was cuddle into his side and sleep till dinner. But still she asked sleepily, "what did Cersei do?"

"Got herself chained to the bedposts, of all things."

"What the fuck!" Margaery's eyes flew open. "Was she robbed? Is she okay?"

But as Tywin's glare hardened, the penny dropped. "She's in good health," Tywin replied drily, "but she's not _okay_."

Silence in the room as each mulled over his words quietly. 

"I never thought..." Margaery ventured by and by. "I mean, she looks like she's the boss of Harry! I just never thought he had it in him to return the favour, that's all."

Tywin's face twisted at his name, as if he'd just downed a half glass of cheap Shiraz. Margaery gave a low whistle. "Just shows," she murmured now almost in awe, "you think you know someone..."

"I would think Harry's part in this would have inspired indignation for your friend, rather than intrigue."

"Oh I'm scandalised, alright," Margaery returned quickly. "Just... you know... the idea of whips. And chains."

She stretched her neck up to stare at Tywin meaningfully and he looked down at her, his expression now verging on exasperation... and something else.

"Your daughter's proclivities..." Margaery asked most innocently, eyes growing wide, "do they run in the family, by any chance?"

A high-pitched squeal as Tywin suddenly gripped her tight and twisted so they rolled as one, her body now pinned under his, her arms stretched over her head and pinioned by his single hand. Margaery felt a gooey rush of desire at her absolute helplessness. He was going to bloody _demolish_ her now, she knew it. She sighed happily.

But then — "Tywin?" she asked, voice soft. "I love the way we rough and tumble. I really do. So please don’t take this the wrong way or anything… but in light of our new Honesty policy, you need to know that actually... most times?” Her voice slipped into a whisper, “...I really like it deep and slow."

"Oh hell!" groaned Tywin, suddenly collapsing on top of her. "Thank _fuck!_ " he muffled into the pillow, "I'm bloody exhausted!"

A beat before Margaery's astonishment soon dissolved in a snort and a fit of giggles, until even Tywin started to chuckle quietly. Then silence again, as his mouth found hers and swallowed her mirth and her sighs. And suddenly, scorching the earth seemed so fucking unnecessary when his own blood, his heart, was already on fire for wholly different reasons.

* * *

He heard everything, of course. The taxi at the gate, _Tai Jie’s_ voice shouting in greeting, her own halting, broken Cantonese… A long pause as he felt her moving about below him, the air in the house already changing, his heart already twisting and pounding in that all too familiar way it did whenever she came near.

She’d come back to his place alone. 

Harrold was not with her. 

 _Steady on, Petyr…_  He flipped his glasses back on his nose, forced himself to re-read the same calculation for the umpteenth time. 

She was climbing the stairs now and he stopped to listen as she paused at the top step. Petyr felt himself hold his breath then. His room was to the left, the rest of the bedrooms off and around to the right. 

“Hey…” Her voice was soft, her hair even softer. That face, that beautiful naked face scrubbed clean of all pretence and pretension was turned to him now. She was wearing a small, shy smile as she hovered outside his door. 

“Heeeeyyyy…” He felt his own face split into a grin as he cast the papers to the side. He hoped his voice wouldn’t crack when he casually asked, “So… how did it go?”

“Good,” was all she said, her curtain of hair tumbling over the side of her face now as she noticed the watercolour on the nearest wall. “And you?” she asked carefully, as she ventured in tentatively to stare intently at the brush strokes. 

He shrugged noncommittally. “I had a good night.”

“I saw you leave the bar with Cece.”

“I told you I’d take care of her.”

“Uh huh.” He watched as she moved from the watercolour now to the oils. He’d bought them together from the same gallery. Same painter, same scenery of the Singapore river, different angle and technique. He watched as she reached out now, almost as if to touch the small swirls of waves and water. She never did, ghosting her fingers across the top as if to feel a mist. 

“I saw you leave with her,” Sansa was saying again now, still staring intently at the canvas, “your hand on her waist… the way you were leading her away…" She turned suddenly, her eyes pinning him so he froze. “I didn’t like it, Petyr.”

So soft, he almost didn’t hear her. Except he did.

He swallowed slowly, even as he raised his eyebrow in challenge. “I did it for you, Sweetling. You know that.”

“Well… It was strange to watch." She looked down at her hands. "I didn't like it.”

He watched her warily now, fighting down his confusion. _What was she saying? What was she getting at?_

He watched her as she crossed the room slowly, her barefoot soundless on his timber floor. “I got your note,” she was saying now. “Reception said you left the club before midnight. Kinda early, I thought. Never even came to say goodbye in person.”

“I didn’t want to disturb.” He kept his tone neutral. Calm, even though he was anything but.  

“You left me to pack our room by myself in the end." She glanced up at him, but she didn't look pissed. "I got your bag ready as well, you know. It’s with _Tai Jie_ downstairs. She insisted on doing your laundry immediately.”

“Thank you,” he murmured. “Sorry I left a mess. I tried to make it simple. I just couldn’t well barge into your room, could I. Not when Harry might be there…” His eyes searched her face. “Was Harry there?

Sansa nodded. “He came back to our room.”

Well. That was to be expected. Petyr swallowed and nodded, pasting on a small smile. “Did he ask you to be his wife again?” _Did he shag you? Make you his again? Mark his scent on your body?_  

Something in Petyr surely broke when she nodded. “He did.”

“Well. Congratulations, Sweetling.” He willed himself to smile a little harder. “You did it! Well done.”

“I turned him down.”

Petyr froze. 

“Did you hear me, Petyr?” Sansa murmured softly now, settling slowly on the bed beside him. “I turned him down.”

“Because of me?” Petyr barely whispered, but Sansa shook her head. 

“No…” she smiled into his eyes, her own sapphires twinkling. “Because of _me._ ” 

Petyr smiled sheepishly now. “Of course,” he murmured. “How presumptuous of m—“

Sansa closed the distance in a heartbeat, sealing off his uncertainty with her lips, her head tilted just slightly, her mouth fitting his just so. And then his hands were holding her face to his, his whiskers rough on her skin even though he knew he would never, ever hurt her. Even though he would junk the house, the car, the cushy job, the life and cuff himself to her for keeps.

 _Easy does it,_ he told himself. But his heart burst just the same. 

“You didn’t go with Harry?” he asked again, not quite believing it still even though he’d planned this in his heart, even though he knew husband and wife were doomed from the start… Harrold didn’t have a _clue_ how to properly love this woman. But h _e_ did. And yet stupider things had been known to happen, Petyr knew. People were strange, funny, bloody exasperating creatures. And he loved this one.

“I left Harry,” she was reassuring him now, their foreheads touching, their arms wreathing the other’s neck. He felt her nuzzle his nose with her own. “He’s still at the club. There was apparently a dreadful commotion about handcuffs,” Sansa added, her face unreadable. “Harry was… ah… detained for questioning, last I knew.”

“Huh,” was all Petyr would commit.

“You... made love to her? And cuffed her to the bed?”

“I never touched her, Sansa.” Petyr’s eyes were serious now. “I couldn’t, not after I had that taste of you. Besides,” he smirked lazily, his mouth now grazing up the side of her face so his breath tickled her ear. “I was never in that room, don’t you know?”

“You’re terrible. She’ll find a way to make you pay, you know.”

“Then let’s never meet her again.”

And this time when his mouth returned to hers, he was sure to take her fully, his tongue tasting her slow and sexy even as he felt the swell of her breasts against his chest. Wordlessly, he tapped her side and helped her as she straddled his lap. She took his glasses off, he unbuttoned the front of her dress, she yanked up his T-shirt until he pulled it up and off of him completely, tossing it to the corner somewhere in a ball.

"Are you sure?" he whispered one last time.

"Are you kidding?" she smiled into his mouth, even as she shivered. 

They were in earnest now, his skin hot-cold as she grew a little bolder. A kiss on his eyelid, a cool breath across his ear that travelled right down to his already twitchy cock. The scent of her, musky and sweet. A hard, telling swallow as she licked a trail down his neck. Her little moans irresistible as he nipped her breasts and covered each mark with a lick. Her hands relishing the lean muscles of his back, even as he peeled the sundress off her shoulders, baring the rest of her to him.

The newness of it, the slack-jaw wonder closely chased by that confounding _WTF!_ rounded off with the sheer joy of finally, _finally_ holding her like this.

He remembered how she’d never climaxed before, as if he could ever fucking forget that whispered conversation in the still of the night. Petyr grinned as he nuzzled down the length of her, as he slowly laid her out on his bed, her hair spread like fire, fucking student papers everywhere, their clothes tangled at the foot of the bed. And all he could think of now was how bloomin’ unbelievable life was. How it always paid to be hospitable. How he was going to worship this beautiful creature and never take his eyes off her. 

He’d watch the whole thing. The moment, the _moment_ she'd come by his hand, his mouth, his tongue, his dick. He could see her now, writhing and glowing and thoroughly, evidently, properly _loved_.

But he was getting ahead of himself, of course. He always did think seven paces ahead. 

“Lie back, my love,” he bade her silkily. “You might want to hold on to something sturdy.”

A hush as his head dipped, as she watched him with open fascination shamelessly kiss her most intimate parts, as she felt his tongue part and then delve into her. And then the bliss, as she rolled her head back, as she felt a delicious warmth bloom and spread, as she slowly but surely turned into one hot mess.

"What are you doing to me!” she whimpered as her leg twitched. But she sure as hell wasn’t actually complaining. Sansa bit her lip now, willing herself not to scare poor _Tai Jie_ downstairs. But oh, the most wonderful feeling was building within her and when she felt him slip inside with his fingers — two whole fingers! — she blushed scarlet red in the face at the very thought. He flicked up suddenly and she gasped, instinct moving her to reach down into his hair and hold him tight. _Don’t crush his head, don’t crush his head_ … she reminded herself over and over and over. It’d be horrid if she finally, FINALLY climaxed, only to find she had squished the man of her dreams in her ardour with her super yoga thighs.

“Ho…” she was starting to whimper now, turning her head this way and that, slightly alarmed. “Ho… Petyr!” 

And then he was up and lying beside her now, his fingers still merciless inside her, his mouth devouring her own and when she finally tasted herself, _it happened_. She slammed her head back into the sheets, arching off the bed like a cat as she mewled noisily into the room, as he continued to milk her climax until she came back down to earth gasping and laughing a little.

She rained kisses on him after that, she was so bloody thrilled. Sansa felt herself finally soften and relax, her body sinking into Petyr's cool silk sheets as she felt him spoon her like they’d been doing this forever. Like he’d always belonged there. 

“When did you know?” she heard him ask curiously, even as sleep starting to wrap around her like a blanket. But she knew the answer to that one. Hindsight could be such a funny thing. The heart was an especially funny ol’ thing, Sansa thought. 

“When you were white-boarding that equation in your lecture,” she yawned softly. “And then that first time, when you just said my name.”

* * *

 

 

ONE MONTH LATER

 

 

Sansa Stark had enjoyed a thoroughly satisfying morning in the way that only an independent woman of means could enjoy. Petyr had saluted the sun before they'd both proceeded to indulge in a solid hour of rumpy-pumpy where she actually managed to blank out for a whole thirty seconds. Maybe. She had morning tea with Margaery at Casterly Rock, and posted a signed and witnessed original of the application form to her divorce lawyer. And then she'd impetuously bought a new set of lace barely-theres in Orchard Road, because she had happened to walk by Petyr’s favourite lingerie shop and they had a small sale. It was _such_ a sweet bodysuit with ribbons in all the delicious places that made her look innocent yet totally not — especially in heels. A girl really couldn't resist! Petyr was a _darling_ to stay home on a Saturday, even though he had lessons to prepare.

Which was just as well, because all she wanted to do that afternoon was show off her new lacy purchase, loll about in bed while he de-ribboned her, and love him _hard_.

“Talk dirty to me. I love it when you talk dirty to me.”

And Petyr smiled into that mane of red as he pulled her closer to him and rasped into her ear.

“I wish I was your derivative… so I could lie tangent to your curves.”

“You’re such a nerd,” Sansa grinned.

“Or maybe a second derivative…” he kissed her neck softly, “so I could investigate your concavities.”

“That’s _awful_ ,” Sansa groaned and chuckled. “Anymore?”

And as always, Petyr saved the best for the last. 

“I’m like PI, baby…” And at that, he pinned her arm behind her back, rubbing the length of his dick against that gloriously toned ass. “I’m really long…” he leered. “And I go on forever.”

And she dissolved into giggles as he kissed her everywhere. Her nose, her chin, her neck, her delicate collarbone, Breast One and Breast Two… that milky-white plane of flesh down to her navel…

“An Aussie kiss for an Aussie girl,” he declared, kissing down her past her belly button as he slowly unbuttoned her shorts.

“What’s an Aussie kiss?”

“Oh you know…” Petyr glinted, "quite French, except down under…”

Amidst the peals of laughter overhead, _Tai Jie_ sighed and pretended to grumble in her kitchen. Master Petyr’s woman couldn’t speak Cantonese for nuts, still played terrible music during her morning exercises, and — worst of all — rivalled the cicadas in her squealing whenever Master Petyr played with her cunt. 

But she also laughed and sang and made Master happy like never before. And sly, crotchety _Tai Jie_ would forever be indebted to that beautiful young woman for that alone. 

“And now,” Petyr intoned dramatically, adjusting himself so he was most favourably positioned. “I would like to thrust my masterful column of passion into your secret garden. Quite violently.”

Sansa gasped. “You didn’t!”

“It took a while, but I finally found your draft manuscript. The one you wrote by hand. You have such pretty handwriting for such a wonderfully pervy bestselling writer,” he teased, even as Sansa turned bright red. But then he kissed her deeply until she melted, and they both sighed as he slid fully into her and held himself for a second or two, just revelling in the feel of her wrapped snug and wet around him.

Her phone pinged just as his did and they both reached out together, fumbling as they turned their screens over, as the laughter died and they sank back into each other, punch drunk on love.

Their phones pinged again, except this time there was a photo from Margee. And by golly, but wasn’t that diamond on her hand fucking _huge_ …

 

THE END

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot overstate how much fun I've had putting this shamelessly fluffy romp together. It was always intended as the pendulum swing after the dramas of Treachery and Tyndyr, except in the course of doing this fic I rediscovered my adoration for romantic comedies and fell in love all over again.
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you for keeping me company during the ride and for parking all Canon GoT sensibilities to come roll around in all this cotton wool here. A very special thanks to apocketfulofwry who inspired some of my favourite lines in this fic and always insisted on first dibs so she could scream about MargWin in particular and then kindly point out any inconsistencies... And for Janedethr, who always makes me laugh.
> 
> * * *
> 
> SO. That big rock from Casterly Rock probably deserves an explanation. And here goes.
> 
> Coming soon at the end of the year-ish...  
>  ** _UNCOUPLING_**
> 
> Thanks to Tywin's string-pulling, everyone gets to stay on in Sunny Singapore, and Petyr and Sansa couldn't be happier shacking up and living in sin while they wait out the mandatory 12 months of trial separation before she officially uncouples from Harry. As a thank you to his new powerful friend, Petyr agrees to do some light corporate espionage... only to come face to face with a woman from his past life.
> 
> Margaery Tyrell is still Margaery Tyrell... except now she's also Lady T Lannister. Life is still a song, except the revised lyrics include needing a SatNav to navigate back to her bedroom, acquiring instant grandchildren, and that small oh-so-slightly awkward matter of being stepmum to the cougar who tried to steal her bestie's hubby. And that's before things really start to go cray.
> 
> When a small incident with an angry shoe results in both twins having to up their security, former Super Sniper Jaime is initially loathed to the idea and bloody indignant. Talk about salt in a wound — as if losing his trigger finger (that was attached to his favourite hand) wasn't bad enough! But then father goes and hires an Amazon woman. And suddenly Cersei's fucking more impossible than usual, if that can be believed.
> 
> Harrold is still around, but only because Cersei willed it. Everyone knows he's on borrowed time, more or less, except the longer Jaime stays around, the better Harry's prospects seem to look. That is until a freak accident flips the chessboard and suddenly Harrold is front and centre of everything. 
> 
> Sex, Sun, and Snafus in Singapore. What more could they want?

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't already guessed, I love chatting to readers. So please, drop me a Hello if you're not too shy.
> 
> I am also on [Tumblr.](https://0pheliaraine.tumblr.com/) I have a [writing schedule](https://calendar.google.com/calendar/embed?src=o817rtudvnf415pb5388sq7r1k%40group.calendar.google.com&ctz=Australia%2FSydney>schedule%20of%20fic%20releases</a>%20which%20is%20also%20viewable%20in%20the%20<a%20href=) that gives an indication of other works and chapters of Sabbatical coming up — although that's all subject to change, of course. This calendar is also viewable in the [ desktop version of Tumblr](https://0pheliaraine.tumblr.com/writing-schedule).


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